Elysian
by pythiaspledge
Summary: Tired of her job at the infamous Joja Corporation, an aspiring farmer claims ownership of her late Grandfather's homestead… and gets much more than she bargains for. The Wizard/Female Farmer
1. Chapter 1

THE FARMER

Despite being the dead of winter, the office's air conditioner sputtered to life. The temperature of the stale air in the cubicle dropped dramatically and Hazel's fingers paused mid-type, her hands hovering just above her outdated keyboard. Her breath swirled in front of her eyes.

From a few cubicles over, a voice called out. "It's gotten' more quiet in here… Sounds like someone's not workin'!" In the otherwise dull hum of the AC and clicking keys, the voice's fake country accent and unordinary high levels of enthusiasm stood in contrast to the somber sound of work. The voice hooted, the accompanying rattling sound suggesting the owner of said voice was the same employee who littered his desk with half-full pill bottles and empty soda cans. "I'm one step closer to being employee of the month!"

" _EMPLOYEE 5B-3,"_ a crackly voice poured from some hidden speaker. " _PLEASE DO NOT DISRUPT YOUR FELLOW EMPLOYEES. REMEMBER: SILENCE IS GOLDEN! RETURN TO WORK."_

Both voices fell into silence, and the work environment settled back into normalcy.

Hazel's hands slid over her arms, holding herself tight to fight back a shiver. Management had sworn that cold temperatures would help increase productivity by keeping employees awake. When Hazel had suggested to her manager that they instead give employees reasonable working hours so that they could get a full night's sleep, she had almost been fired. Her manager was furious at the accusation. Or, at least, she had assumed he was. She had never seen him when he was not smiling. Sometimes, it seemed as though the Joja Corporation had plastered the faces of managers into the off-putting grin they all permanently sported. She wouldn't put it past them.

Hazel sighed. Another swirl of warm breath danced in the air, and she watched it until it faded away.

Working for the Joja Corporation was soul-crushing. Long hours, little pay, and if she were to be honest she was not even entirely sure _what_ her job even was. Most days she just sat in front of a screen, typing in whatever numbers or words she was prompted to by the unnecessarily complex computer program that dictated how she spent her working hours. She was nothing but an object to her employer, a thing with the ability to punch keys in the proper order needed in order to turn a profit.

Hazel hated it.

She needed to leave.

How? She needed money, and the war with the Gotoro Empire wasn't doing much to encourage job growth.

Then, she remembered.

The letter.

Speaker static interrupted her thoughts. " _EMPLOYEE 2B-3, YOU HAVE BEEN IDLE FOR TWO MINUTES. YOU HAVE THREE MINUTES UNTIL MANAGEMENT IS INFORMED. PLEASE RETURN TO WORK."_

Ignoring the threat, Hazel pulled on a cold metal of a drawer handle and rifled through her desk until she found what she looked for – a small envelope, white as snow, with her name messily written in black ink. The letter was sealed with purple wax, which itself was stamped with a pattern so intricate that it was hypnotizing. Curved, organic imprints swirl around what looked like an apple. When stared at for too long, the design appeared to move and dance like trees branches in the breeze.

Hazel slid her finger under the fold of the envelope and under the wax, the violet stamp unusually warm under her touch. The whole letter seemed as though it had begun to vibrate and Hazel shivered as the wax separated itself from the paper, though she presumed the sensations must simply be due to the mix of the chill and her anticipation.

This letter had been a constant in her life. She had never lost it, and had begun to assume it was impossible for her to. Whenever she thought she had walked away from the missive, she would find it had actually been in her coat pocket or deep within her purse the whole time. Always on her person or somewhere close by. It was also the last thing she had of her grandfather, his last gift to her. A gift only to be opened if modern life had crushed her.

If that description did not apply to her current lot in life, she supposed it never would.

The speaker crackled another warning directed at her. She had one minute.

Folding open the unusually soft parchment, Hazel smiled fondly at the almost unintelligible handwriting of her late grandfather. She began to read.

 _If you're reading this, you must be in dire need of a change. The same thing happened to me, long ago. I'd lost sight of what mattered most in life... real connections with other people and nature. So I dropped everything and moved to the place I truly belong._

 _I've enclosed the deed to that place… My pride and joy: Elysian Farm. It's located in Stardew Valley, on the southern coast. It's the perfect place to start your new life._

 _This was my most precious gift of all, and now it's yours. I know you'll honor the family name, my girl. Good luck, and stay safe._

 _Love, Grandpa_

Somewhere, a static-filled voice informed her a manager was coming to check on her, but she did not care. A farm… When did grandpa have a farm? She had no memory of Elysian, nor had her father ever mentioned it.

No matter, she thought to herself. This was her escape. Her way out of the torture that was corporate employment.

As the sharp click of her manager's shoes echoed down the corridor, her mind swam with thoughts of Stardew Valley. She had never heard of the place, and her stomach flopped with excitement over the prospect of this new adventure.

"Employee 2B-3!" Hazel looked up from her letter, her gaze meeting cold eyes and an angry smile. She licked her chapped lips, the words she had wanted to say for so long dancing on her tongue. "According to our program, you have been inactive fo-"  
Hazel smiled genuinely and interrupted.

"I quit!"

* * *

THE WIZARD

Despite being the dead of winter, the tower filled with a sudden and unexpected warmth.

Rasmodius snapped to attention, setting aside the almost comically large tome he had been engrossed in with a loud thud. Outside his tower, the winter wind howled and snowflakes bleached the forest floor white with their presence. Otherwise, all was silent.

He stood quickly, the sudden presence of magic causing the room to vibrate with arcane energy. He remembered this spell. It had been cast so many years ago that an average mortal may have let its existance slip into the fog of memories past, but no such thing happened to him. A spell of his, once cast, was never forgotten.

The heat, however, had not been an anticipated side-effect.

Crossing the room with long strides, he flew towards his bookshelf and grabbed a small locked box that had been carefully positioned between stacks the of hand-written journals he had been unable to decipher. Blowing dust off the plain wooden box, he gently swiped his hand over the sigil which kept the container closed to all but him. The lid silently swung open.

Inside was a small envelope, white as snow. Rasmodius gingerly picked up the parchment and ran his hand over the front side where a stamp would normally be placed, though in this case was completely blank. Flipping the envelope over, he looked at the purple seal.

The envelope was open, though empty. A drawing of a lone junimo danced wildly and joyfully in the swirl of organic lines that had been stamped onto the purple wax, and a quick swipe of his thumb over the opened seal told him that the charm was the source of the warmth that had filled his home.

The contract was fulfilled, then.

Good, he wanted to think. The land was ill, and the land required it.

Nevertheless, he could not help but feel a twinge of pity deep within himself for the poor soul who had agreed to such terms.

With a sigh, he locked the box again and placed the container back on the shelf before pulling out other thick tomes from the overly-filled shelves.

He would need time to prepare for them.

They would as well, he mused as he settled back into his chair.

Slowly, the warmth in the tower faded, and the blizzard outside calmed to a flurry before stopping entirely. Everything was still, as if the forest was holding its breath in anticipation.

While Rasmodius would not admit it, there were times where he was, as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**THE FARMER**

Tall grey office buildings and drab apartment complexes flew past the window as the bus drove through the city streets. The ride to the valley had been a long one – three hours to Zuzu city, and now more two hours to reach Pelican town.

Hazel shifted uncomfortably in her hard seat, trying her best to stretch her legs without accidentally kicking any of the other people on the overly-crowded bus. Next to her, a woman on her cell phone bragged enthusiastically about her daughter's recent raise. A man in front of Hazel was trying to calm a wailing baby. Somewhere in the back, a group of tipsy college students chatted and cheered about an upcoming girdball game. The air was warm and stuffy, and smelt strongly of sweat. Hazel held tighter onto her backpack, which held all the possessions she had not already sold, and pulled it closer to her chest. She had never been terribly fond of crowds. There was something overwhelming about them... No freedom, no fresh air, just people packed like sardines.

Taking a deep breath to center herself, Hazel pressed her face against the window. She watched the similar buildings pass by, blending together into steaks of grey dotted with colorful neon signs. She closed her eyes. Before long, sleep consumed her.

Her sleep was deep and dreamless. It was restful. That was, until a soft voice roused her.

 _"It seems you have finally arrived."_

Hazel woke with a start, gasping slightly in surprise and straightening up in her seat. The bus had been so loud when she had begun her nap, so it seemed strange that such a hushed voice had awoken her. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Hazel looked beside her only to find that the chatty woman was gone. She heard no baby, nor any college students (drunk or otherwise). Where was everyone? How long had she been asleep? I feeling of unease crept into her gut.

Sliding across the bus seat and sticking her head into the aisle, Hazel looked around the bus. No one was there besides her and the bus driver. Was she just dreaming being talked to?

She called out to the driver. "Excuse me?" She waited a few moments. No response. "Excuse me!" She shouted.

The driver shifted in his seat, taking out an earbud Hazel hadn't seen. She could hear the pop music pouring from the headphone. No wonder he hadn't heard her. He shouted his response, even louder than Hazel had been. "What!? What did ya' need!?"

"Did you say something to me just now?"

"I said, 'What did ya' need'!"

"No, I mean, what did you say before that?"

"I said, 'what'!"

Hazel groaned. "And what did you say before _that_?"

"I said we've finally arrived in the valley!" The bus driver began to put his earbud back in. "It shouldn't be long now until we reach Pelican Town!"

The man seemed much too loud to be the voice she heard, but she supposed she must have heard him. That, or she had dreamt it. She tried to push it from her mind, but couldn't shake an ever-increasing feeling of being watched. She shivered.

Hazel slumped back into her seat and slid over to the window. The maze-like city streets she had fallen asleep to had been replaced with brilliantly green grass and rolling hills as far as she could see. Crawling onto her knees, she opened the window as much as it would allow. Fresh air poured through the small crack, bringing with it the smell of the sea. Excitement bubbled within her. She couldn't remember the last time she had seen the ocean, let alone stepped in fresh, clear water… In the city, the waterways were crowded with litter and refuse.

Before long the bus pulled to a stop. The driver loudly announced that they were at Pelican town. Gathering her few belongings, Hazel made her way to the front of the vehicle. The bus driver pushed a button and the door opened with a swish. "Have a good one!" The man yelled at her.

"You too," Hazel returned.

Just as she was about to exit, Hazel shivered once more. The feeling of being watched was back. She craned her head towards the empty bus seats as she descended the stairs, searching once more for the source of the feeling. Distracted as she was, she didn't notice when she almost ran head-first into someone waiting just outside the vehicle. "Hello!" A new voice called out. "You must be Hazel."

"Ah!" Hazel jumped at the voice, gripping tighter onto her backpack. In front of her stood a tall, broad-shouldered middle-aged woman. Her strikingly orange shoulder-length hair was pulled into a half-ponytail, and she smiled gently. Hazel's cheeks warmed. The first person she met in the valley and she had introduced herself by screaming in their face. Things were going off to a great start.

"I'm Robin," the tall woman said, her lips twitching upwards in an obvious attempt to suppress a laugh. She offered her hand. Hazel took it. Robin's hand was warm and heavily calloused, her handshake firm. "I'm the local carpenter."

"It's nice to meet you," Hazel returned the shake. "I'm Hazel, the new farmer. But you, uh… Already knew that."

Robin released her hand. "Mayor Lewis sent me here to show you the way to your new home. He's there right now, tidying things up for our arrival. The farm's not far from here, it's just a short walk in that direction." She motioned to her left. There was a path, lined with beautiful green trees and peppered with spring flowers. "If you'll follow me," she turned on her heels and began to lead the way.

"Oh, thank you," Hazel murmured and hurried forward, trying to keep pace with the woman's long strides.

"No need to thank me. Anything to make our new farmer feel welcome."

Before long the dirt path opened to a large and wild field. Trees towered above them, and the ground was carpeted with dead plants, yellow weeds, and heavy-looking stones. A small wooden cabin stood nearby, overlooking the small forest. This truly was the country, Hazel figured. Never in the city would she have to walk through wilderness to reach her destination.

Robin stopped suddenly, and Hazel almost ran into her again. "This is Elysian farm," the carpenter said, hand sweeping towards the house and field.

"This is… what?" Hazel sputtered. This was woodlands, not a farm. Surely this was a joke?

"What's the matter?" Robin's hands rested on her hips, her eyes meeting Hazel's before flicking back to the field. The carpenter shrugged. "Sure, it's a bit overgrown, but there's some good soil underneath that mess! With a little dedication you'll have it cleaned up in no time."

Hazel wasn't so sure about that. The farm was a mess. Half of the field was littered with yellow, crisp-looking plants. Why would the place with supposedly good soil kill half the things that grew in it? The would-be farmer ran a hand through her hair.

Yoba… What had she gotten herself into?

The door from the nearby cabin swung open with a loud thud, interrupting her thoughts. A short older man stepped out and glanced towards the two women, a broad smile blossoming from under his grey handlebar mustache. "Ah, the new farmer!" He scrambled towards them, taking Hazel's hand with both of his and shaking vigorously. "Welcome, welcome! I'm Lewis, Mayor of Pelican town. I was a friend of your grandfather's!" He chuckled. "He used to talk about you every chance he got."

"Nice to meet you, Mayor Lewis," she returned, letting her hand drop back to her side as the shake ended. A wave of awkwardness hit, as she was unsure of how to respond. Her grandpa had never told her anything about the people in his life. She hadn't even heard of Lewis until she had begun the process of moving to the small town. Luckily, the mayor continued without pausing.

"You know, everyone's been asking about you. It's not every day that someone new moves in. It's quite a big deal!" Robin nodded in agreement. "I think it's great you're moving into your grandfather's old cottage, too. It's a good house… very rustic."

"Rustic?" Robin snorted. "That's one way to put it. Crusty might be a little more apt, though." Lewis corrected the woman as she tried to stifle her chuckles, before he began trying to comfort the farmer. He said something about upgrades, then he and the carpenter went back and forth about the benefits of owning a "fixer-upper". Hazel wasn't really listening though. She couldn't shake the same feeling of being watched, and turned her head around to find the source.

"… about that, Hazel?"

"Huh?" She snapped to attention at the sound of her name, looking to both of them in confusion. "Sorry, I, uh…"

Lewis and Robin shared a look. "You must be tired from the long journey," the mayor said and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You should get some rest."

Hazel hesitated. She wasn't tired. She had slept on the way here. But… They were probably right. It was probably nothing, and it had been a long day. She tried to shake the feeling off.

The group said their goodbyes as the sun began to dip beyond the horizon, the trees casting long shadows over the weeds and rocks. As the last of the sunlight began to fade and her escorts made their way back to their own homes, Hazel walked up the steps leading to her porch. Old wood creaked loudly under her boots, and the heavy door groaned as she opened it. She gave one last glance behind her.

"It's nothing, Hazel," she said to herself. "It's nothing." She stepped into her new home, and shut the door behind her.

* * *

 **THE WIZARD**

When she arrived, he dreamt of her.

Rasmodius had fallen asleep, suddenly and uncharacteristically, in the middle of making extensive notes on the magical properties of local flora. His eyes had grown heavy halfway through penning a sentence, and slumber had overtaken him before his head had even slumped onto the desk.

Soon after, the dream began.

At first, everything was fuzzy. Colors swirled and objects faded in and out of focus. Then ever so slowly, something took form… A young woman. She was the one clear spot in a colorful fog. This woman was sat in front of him, resting on some invisible seat, and was fast asleep. There was something vaguely familiar about her, as though he was certain he had seen her somewhere before. He noticed that the same heat that retreated from the letter radiated from her body. She must have been the one who agreed to the contract, then. She must have called him here.

Hm. "It seems you have finally arrived," he spoke to the sleeping woman. How strange that she had been able to bypass his wards. Even stranger that she had called him here at all, only to be greet him with her sleeping form. Was she simply pretending to slumber? Was this perhaps a display of dominance? After all, she must be quite powerful to have brought his consciousness to her. It would not surprise him if this was all some kind of mind game.

The woman stirred. Her head rolled back slightly, and her eyelids fluttered. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. For when she rose from her sleep, so did he. Rasmodius jolted awake, causing his wide-brimmed black hat to fall to the floor. A paper had stuck to the side of his face, which he gingerly peeled away from his cheek.

He was back in his tower, far away from the magic-induced dream.

That was odd. Very, very odd…

The chair groaned against the ground as Rasmodius stood and looked around the room. The air positively sung with foreign magic, and he could feel whispers of energy swirl around his fingers. He shivered. Otherwise, all appeared to be in its proper place. The protective runes and sigils still seemed functional, though the wizard made a mental note to strengthen them later.

After all, only his own magic was supposed to be allowed through his barriers with his consent. Yet, here it was.

Picking up a small spyglass from a nearby table, Rasmodius made his way to a tall and slender window that overlooked the valley. Most other wizards would head for their crystals or mirrors to view what they wished, but Rasmodius was never terribly good at scrying. Moreover, there was no guarantee this mysterious mage would be able to block his attempts. If this woman was capable of causing such feats of magic while bypassing his protections, he was unsure of what else she was capable of. Of course, her contract would prevent her from doing too much harm, but people seemed to always find ways to bend rules when they wished.

He would have to be careful around her.

The man peered over the valley. Sunset was soon. Rasmodius figured he must have been asleep for a couple of hours, as the tower had begun to cast a long shadow over the forest below. Peering through his spyglass, he could just barely make out a bus pulling into the valley. Someone, no bigger than an ant through the glass, stepped out of the vehicle and towards another figure that waited nearby. Eventually the two walked away from the bus stop and towards the abandoned farm that sat just outside town. As the two stopped in the overgrown field they were joined by a third figure. Rasmodius stifled a dry chuckle at what he supposed was her choice of residence. He supposed it was fitting that she lived there, considering the abode's last occupant had filled the same role that this new woman would soon be filling.

As the ant-sized figures separated and the new arrival entered the old cabin, Rasmodius sat down his spyglass and moved away from his window. He needed to work.

And so he did. Later that day, as the moon sat high in the night sky and the stars shined down on the valley, the wizard hunched over his protection sigils. He strengthened them, created more, and took every precaution for this unknown and obviously unpredictable new addition to the valley. Nothing worked.

And when the soft dawn rose and painted the sky purple and orange, he was still working. Still failing.

Her magic still sung in the air.


	3. Chapter 3

**THE FARMER**

The axe hit the dead wood of the oak tree with a dull thud. Despite the screaming protest of her burning muscles, Hazel tightened her grip on the haft and swung again. And again. On and on she went for what felt like an eternity, until the wood creaked and moaned and the tall tree fell unceremoniously onto a nearby patch of withered weeds.

Hazel's grip on the heft loosened and she plopped herself down onto the dry, cracked earth below her. Setting the axe aside, she flexed her sore fingers and looked at her hands, which were caked in dirt and heavily callused from the manual labor. The left hand was bandaged across the palm. Running a finger gently over the rough gauze, she took comfort in the lack of blood. Earlier that morning, she had fumbled her scythe while clearing land for crops and somehow managed to cut herself in her panic to grab the tool. The bleeding had stopped, so she hoped she wouldn't need stitches. She wouldn't be able to afford the medical fee right now.

Hazel sighed deeply and held her head in her hands. Every part of her ached and her limbs were heavy with exhaustion. Running a farm wasn't just difficult, it was nightmarish. Half a season had passed since she first arrived in the valley, and she had been nothing but thoroughly unlucky.

The valley seemed so promising when she arrived. Her field was a bit dead, but the trees in the town still shone green in the sun and the air still hung heavy with the smell of pollen and sea water. Rabbits darted from bushes and seagulls patrolled the beach. Everything was lovely.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, nothing was lovely.

It began only a few days after her arrival. Crops withered in the field. Water dried in the pail before it even reached her plants. Trees and bushes wasted away over-night. Fish floated to the surface of the lakes and streams and the air became thick with the smell of their rotten flesh. The birds had stopped singing in the trees. It was like the valley was dying.

That wasn't even the strangest part, though.

The strangest part was that no one else was noticing.

The citizens of Pelican town continued on as if the valley was thriving. The Mayor tended to his garden of wilted flowers every morning. Marnie cared for vacant pens of non-existent cows and sheep. Demetrius mused on the fauna of the empty forest.

Strange behavior was spreading like a plague. The other day, Hazel had run into Leah and was invited to lunch. Leah said she had foraged some tasty salads from forest. But when the two sat down to eat, the young artist had placed two bowls of dried tree leaves and twigs on the table. There was a dead mouse in one of them. Hazel thought it was a sick joke, but before she could say anything Leah stabbed her fork into the inedible mess and brought it to her mouth. She chewed it, and she swallowed.

Hazel had faked illness and ran from Leah's house as fast as her legs allowed. The farmer didn't understand what was happening with them all. Everyone seemed so friendly. Most of them still smiled broadly and brightly, despite the world falling apart around them. But the happiness was misplaced. The town was dying, and they refused to see it.

It was off-putting. It was frightening. _They_ were frightening.

"Good morning, farmer!"

The voice snapped Hazel out of her recollections, and her hand shot to the axe by her side. Turning to face the direction of the speaker, her eyes met the green of the mayor's button-up. Lewis strolled down the dirt path to her cabin, carrying a brown cloth sack with both hands.

"Good morning, Mayor Lewis," Hazel responded after a moment. She stood, slowly and cautiously, but made no motion to move closer to the older man. Her grip on the heft of the axe tightened. "Is there something you need?" Her eyes flicked to the sack he carried, then back to him.

"Well, a new teapot would be nice!" Lewis laughed at his own joke. "Actually, I'm here to drop off the mail. Just running a bit late today. I was a bit, ah… _Indisposed_ this morning." A visible red flush spread over his cheeks, and he coughed awkwardly.

Hazel grunted a response. Lewis and Marnie obviously had something between them, and Hazel prayed that was what kept him "indisposed" and not something notably more insidious. Nevertheless, she watched the mayor carefully as he reached in the sack and stuffed a single letter into the slot of her mailbox.

"Well I'd love to chat, but I have a few more homes to deliver mail to. Have a good one, farmer!" Lewis began to make his way back down the path.

Hazel hesitated. "Mayor Lewis, wait."

"Yes?"

She hesitated again. This was a stupid idea. She shouldn't be talking to them, but her curiosity won out. She needed to be sure they were seeing something different than her. She needed to make sure they weren't simply ignoring the death of the valley.

"You like to garden, right? What do you think of my crops?" She gestured to the closest field, which was neatly tilled but littered with dead saplings.

Lewis hummed to himself for a moment. "Well, I'm no expert, but I'd say these are looking good! They're parsnips, right? I'm sure they'll make a fine meal one day." He smiled, broadly. "Your grandfather would be proud!"

"What color are they?"

"Pardon me?"

"What color are the plants?"

Lewis paused, visibly confused. The expression faded quickly, however, as understanding flooded his face. "Ah," he chuckled, knowingly. "You know, I always assumed your grandfather was colorblind! He would ask me questions like this sometimes. I suppose it runs in the family."

"So what color are they to you?"

"Green, of course!"

They were not green. They were yellow. A crisp, dead yellow.

"Thank you, Mayor Lewis." He smiled at her. She did not smile back.

Lewis wished her well again, and bid her goodbye. Hazel waited a few minutes after he had left before making her way to the mailbox.

Some desperate part of her wished she'd find an envelope full of money. Wished that she'd be the winner of some lottery she didn't remember entering. Hazel had given up everything she owned to move to Pelican Town, and the cost of up keeping the quickly atrophying farm had been a substantial draw on what was left of her finances. And now, as everything died around her and the people walked around in a delusion, she just wanted to run. Run far away, and start anew for the second time. Find another small town, find another job. Another life.

Though she wouldn't admit it, she knew she couldn't. She had no money. She had no contacts. She had no phone, had no internet. None of her letters to her father had been met with responses. Pelican Town's bus had broken, and the bus transit system she took to the town no longer seemed to make stops in the valley.

Hazel was trapped. She wanted to leave the valley, but it was like the valley did not want her to leave.

The farmer opened her mailbox. Inside was one thin, blue envelope with _JOJAMART. Life's better with Joja!_ printed on the front _._ There was no mailing address. There was no return address. There was no stamp.

Suspicion and hope swelled within her. This could be her ticket out of here. Perhaps they wanted her back at her job. Even if they didn't, the fact that she might have gotten a letter from outside the valley was a good start. Still, she held back her hope.

"Yoba help me," Hazel sighed. She had never been a religious person, but if there was any point in her life she truly needed God it was now. Living in a nightmare town was one thing, but even considering looking to the Joja Corporation for help was truly rock bottom.

She slid a finger under the seal and pulled out the letter.

 _Dear current resident,_

 _Your local branch of JojaMart welcomes you to the town! Here at the Joja Corporation, we believe everyone is family. Family deserves the best, so we invite you to visit your local JojaMart for high-quality goods at unbeatable prices! We hope to see you there!_

 _-Mr. Morris, Manager_

 _Pelican Town JojaMart_

Hazel groaned. She was conflicted. On one hand, this was not the one-ticket out of town she was hoping for. On the other, this could be a good first step, even if the idea of having contact with that demon of a corporation made her skin crawl. Maybe she could buy a phone. But would they even sell them? Would she even have service? Could she even afford one?

She played with the idea of stealing the phone. Anything to have some contact with the world outside the valley.

Crumpling the letter up and stuffing it in her bag, Hazel made her way to town.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Farmer**

"No, you're not listening! I need a prepaid _cell phone_. Not… these things!" Hazel gritted her teeth and gestured down to the multitude of bright blue JojaMart prepaid gift cards that were fanned across the countertop.

From the other side of his counter, Morris smiled. His grin was sharp and threatening, all bleached teeth and no gums. "JojaMart is always happy to hear feedback from a customer. Perhaps you would be more interested in our Premium Prepaid Gift Cards? They hold twice the amount of JojaMart redeemable points!"

"No. Seriously, I don't need a gift card. I need a-"

The dull, lifeless hum of the store was interrupted by a shrill chime, itself distorted by the store's cheap speakers. The sound pierced the ears of its listeners, and Hazel winced. Morris smiled on, unmoving. " _Welcome shoppers,"_ a pre-recorded voice cooed. " _Thank you for choosing JojaMart! Today, we have a buy 10 get one 5% deal on JojaMart Sugar Blast cereal – now only 90% sugar! And don't forget to ask a sales associate about our-"_

"Look," Hazel began, leaning in as close to the manager as she dared in an attempt to be heard over the loud announcement. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Morris reeked of cheap cologne. "I used to work for JojaCorp. I know the spiel. It's not going to work. I came here for one item and I'm not going to buy anything else, no matter what you recommend to me. I. Need. A. _Cellphone_. I couldn't find any in your store. I just need to know if you have any in the back."

Morris slid his tinted spectacles down his nose and locked eyes with her. Hazel could have sworn his irises shined crimson under the harsh overhead light, and she figured she would have wilted away under the intensity of his stare if she hadn't been used to such treatment from her previous job.

"So you're a member of the JojaCorp family!"  
"Ex-member."

"Ah. I see. What a shame it is that you've left our organization! Well, it's as I say – 'Once you're in JojaCorp, you're always in JojaCorp!'" Morris tented his fingers. "Perhaps we can bring you back into the fold! Would you like to sign up for our rewards progra-"

" _Cell. Phone._ " Hazel groaned. "You know what, just forget it."

Spinning on her heels, the farmer took a few steps towards the automatic door. Relief welled within her at the thought of leaving this damnable store. She would just have to find another way out, she decided. There was nothing for her here.

"Farmer, wait a moment." Hazel looked over her shoulder. Morris stood still as a statue – same unnerving grin, same tented fingers, same blood-red glare. "Unfortunately, we do not carry cell phones in our stock. However, I do have… connections. JoJaMart provides." Hazel did not move from her spot, but raised an eyebrow. The announcement had stopped, and the dull hum of the store returned. Somewhere in the back, Shane noisily restocked the shelves. "Though I wouldn't be able to perform such a feat for _free,_ of course."

"How much?"

"No money," Morris purred. "A favor. That's all I ask. Now, come." He beckoned Hazel towards the counter with a crooked finger. "Let's make a deal."


	5. Chapter 5

THE WIZARD

Around midday, winds from the sea rolled dark and heavy clouds inland, blanketing the blue sky in thick grey. The valley quieted, filled with the wet and grassy smell of an impending thunderstorm. Even inside his tower, Rasmodius could feel the imminent rain – the air brimmed with electricity and anticipation.

The wizard would usually use the changing weather to his advantage. Rainwater was useful in many potions, and the pure energy of thunderbolts charged depleted magical objects much faster than human hands ever could. Yet, Rasmodius was not swayed from his self-appointed vigil. Seated on a well-worn cushioned stool, he watched his cauldron bubble even as his candles failed to fight back the room's quickly darkening gloom and his eyes strained against the low light.

Eventually, there came a knock at the door. Two knocks. Three knocks.

A moment passed. Rasmodius did not move. Thunder roared in the distance.

"Rasmodius," a familiar voice behind the door called out, deep and raspy. Another knock. "I know you're in there."

The doorknob rattled. Attention still trained on the contents of his cauldron, Rasmodius unceremoniously waved a hand in the direction of the entrance. There was a pop, and door swung open with a loud creak.

A man stepped through the doorway. Tall and broad-shouldered with wild white hair, he cut an imposing figure against the flickering candlelight even in his old age. The giant of a man shut the door behind him with surprising gentleness, before turning his attention to the purple-haired wizard.

"Greetings, Marlon," Rasmodius spoke plainly into the dark. The wizard paused and hummed thoughtfully to himself, reaching to grab a small leather bag that sat on a messy table beside him. The contents of the pouch – a dark and grainy soot that reeked of coal and burnt tallow - was gingerly poured into the cauldron. Rasmodius stared until the viscous mixture that boiled within turned a dark, muddy brown. He hummed in approval, before finally flicking his eyes to a patiently waiting Marlon. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Of course," Marlon answered. In a few large steps, slowed significantly by a notable limp, the older man made his way to a nearby table and lowered himself into a wooden chair with a loud groan of pain. "It's the weather," he explained when Rasmodius looked at him with a raised eyebrow and an expression of mild concern. "The bad leg hurts whenever rain's coming."

"I may be able to help with your leg, if you'd like. Though impossible to heal, there are ways to ease the pain. Though the issue with your eye is, of course, permanent."

Marlon waved his hand in the air, dismissing the notion. "It's alright, Rasmodius. You don't have to offer every time you see me. Besides, it's magic that caused this in the first place," he gently tapped his left leg with one hand and gestured to his eyepatch with another. "I'm a bit like a walking cautionary tale on not messing with forces beyond my understanding."

"As you wish," Rasmodius said plainly. "Though I hope I may be able to convince you to involve yourself in the esoteric once more, if only in some small capacity. I am in need of… assistance." Marlon's stiffened, shadows catching on the wrinkles in his face. "Are you aware of the… changes in the valley?"

"I am." His voice dripped with deadly seriousness. Reaching up behind his head, Marlon gently untied his eyepatch and removed it. In the left socket was not a human eye, but a fairy stone – a deep and endless purple, the stone was smoothed to perfection and glittered slightly in the candlelight. An unusually large iris, gleaming and white as the moon, darted back and forth wildly across the surface of the stone. All the while, Marlon's human eye stayed trained on Rasmodius. "The Fairy Eye sees the valley as decayed. I was going to meet with you about it, but the monsters in the mine have become… agitated, as of late. I've been monitoring them. Since JojaMart began their business in the mountain, many have attempted to… leave."

"Have any succeeded?"

"No. The runes have held out, despite JojaMart's meddling. I'm no wizard, though... I don't know how much longer they'll last."

A moment of silence between the two men. Rasmodius stroked his beard as his eyebrows knitted together. Marlon rubbed his thumb against the soft fabric of the eyepatch. Outside the tower, thunder roared. The storm was getting closer.

Marlon broke the silence. "Is this about the new farmer?"

"Yes."

"Is she… malevolent?"  
"I do not know. She agreed to the contract, so her behavior will be restricted either way." A loud gurgle came from the cauldron, prompting Rasmodius to dip a stone spoon into the mixture. Marlon's purple eye flicked over to him, staring intensely as the wizard stirred his concoction. After a few moments, Rasmodius pulled the spoon out and set it aside and the purple eye went back to looking wildly around the tower. "As you can see, she has not performed the binding ritual yet, as I have not completed the potion. I am close, however. Nevertheless, the valley should have improved simply for her presence. Something is very wrong. I… find myself in need a favor."

"What do you need me to do?"

"There should be a letter on the table next to you. Please, open it."

Marlon held the envelope to the light of a nearby candle. "From someone named… Dodona? Ah, the fortune teller from the Stardew Valley Fair."

"Indeed. She is the most talented diviner I know."

Marlon opened the envelope. The paper was cool to the touch, and perfumed with a cinnamon and woody incense. Inside was a short letter written in delicate cursive. Marlon read it aloud. _"She will need a sword,_ it says. _"_ He gave a bitter, breathy laugh. "She certainly will, with the mine the way it is."

"I am willing to pay for her sword, if needed."

"No need. Consider it a gift."

The wizard nodded. "You have my gratitude, Marlon. I admit I am… hesitant to give the woman a weapon, but Dodona has never been wrong before. I would much appreciate it if you are able to give her the weapon as soon as-"

Rasmodius froze. Suddenly, his body filled with a strange and uncomfortable sensation – he was numb, too warm, and trembling profusely.

"Rasmodius?"

"Something is wrong."

"I see nothing."

"There is nothing wrong _here._ " A pause. "Please, leave me. I must concentrate."

Without a word, Marlon tied his eyepatch on and slowly made his way to the entrance. He opened and shut the door with the same gentleness as before.

Rasmodius was once again alone.

The wizard closed his eyes, grinding his teeth and concentrating on the strange magic. It was familiar – the same as from the farmer's contract.

His protective sigils had failed again, then. This was certainly not _his_ magic.

A sharp inhale, a deep exhale. The wizard willed the magic to explain itself, pushing and prodding at the foreign energy that filled and embraced him. He tugged at the magic, demanding answers, searching for the strings that connected it to the woman it belonged to.

And there he sat, on his worn cushion, his eyes shut. Searching.

Eventually, heavy rain poured from the sky and besieged the valley bellow with thick droplets and lightening. Thunder roared from above the tower.

Still, Rasmodius sat, unmoving.


	6. Chapter 6

**THE FARMER**

Spindly bolts of lightning shot across the distant sky, momentarily dyeing the heavy grey clouds with their blueish glow. Hazel paused her hike to watch this dance of electricity, her boots digging into the dry earth below her and kicking up a small plume of dust. She was breathing heavily and covered in a fine mist of sweat, so the unseasonably cool air the coming storm seemed to be blowing in was a welcome respite from what had been an unexpectedly difficult uphill walk. Hazel was still unaccustomed to all the physical labor of farm life – long days sitting stationary at her desk at Joja Corp hadn't exactly required a high level of physical ability.

Another lightning bolt flashed. "One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand…" She counted up to ten, before thunder rumbled across the sky. The storm was two miles away, then. The farmer figured she would make it in time – after all, she could already see her destination.

The problem would be trying to get back in the storm.

She sighed deeply before continuing her trudge uphill. The hilly forest by Robin's family's home was just as horrible looking as the rest of the valley, all dead plants and decomposing animals. Even the salty smell of the ocean the coming storm had brought inland couldn't cover the overwhelming smell of rot.

Skeletal branches of mostly-bare trees loomed menacingly above her, and Hazel was reminded of a fairy-tale she had been told when she was little. It was about a princess who ran into cursed woods to escape an evil wizard, only to be scooped up and tangled in the gnarled branches of enchanted trees that wanted to capture the princess and keep her for themselves. Hazel couldn't remember the ending of the story – as a young girl she could barely sit still long enough to hear the beginning of the tale, as she was always ready to run off at the first chance and play in the small patches of dirt outside her father's apartment. She wished she had listened now, if only to get the mental image of one of these trees lashing out at her out of her mind.

Trees didn't move, of course. She knew that. But the ominous feeling of dread and decay that blanketed the valley the last couple of weeks reminded her way too much of the enchanted forest of her father's tales, and though she swore she knew better than to be scared by children's stories she found herself walking just a little bit faster. She had somewhere to be, Hazel justified it to herself. The faster she got to her destination, the better… After all, she had a job to do.

"I want you to check on our progress in the mines," Morris had said to her before she left JojaMart, tenting his hands and smiling wickedly as if he were the villain in a bad spy movie. Hazel was suspicious of the whole thing, of course – she didn't trust anything involving JojaCorp. The corporation wasn't exactly known for their moral business practices. Still, it was a simple request. A vague request. And, despite the growing knot that was tangling itself deep within the pit of her stomach, a request Hazel was going to accomplish. She needed a phone, after all. She needed a way out of the valley.

Hazel also wasn't terribly surprised that the manager didn't want to go and do whatever checking in on "our" progress entailed on his own. Lightning storm aside, Hazel was pretty sure none of the higher-ups at Joja ever left their precious company-affiliated buildings. They were kind of like opposite vampires, she mused, not able to leave without being told they're allowed to by their corporate overlords. Hazel snorted at the idea. She wouldn't be surprised if they burned up in the sunlight, either.

She was almost at the entrance to the mine. Tentatively, Hazel stepped across a shoddily built wooden walkway that was more a collection random planks than a proper bridge and slowly made her way over the mouth of a large lake. The water was disgusting, totally stagnant and decorated with the floating corpses of dead fish. Hazel held her nose and hurried over to the mines, grateful for any space between her and the foul smelling body of water.

But when Hazel stepped through the mouth of the cave and immediately felt… wrong. The cave was a bit cooler than the outside, but she was suddenly freezing. Her limbs were overcome with a strange, numb feeling that she had never experienced before. It felt like her skin was made of static, but also as if she was being burned in reverse – like scorched skin going backwards in time.

The cave began to blur and spin. The sensations were all too new and overwhelming to deal with. Hazel hugged herself tightly and leaned against the hard cave wall, fighting back a wave of nausea. The sensations continued and heightened in intensity. A force seemed to prod and pull at her insides. The force wanted to _know her_ – who she was, what she was, why she had the audacity to be where she was. She felt an accusatory pull of the invisible and numbing chill once again, as if a string attached to some deep and previously untouched part deep inside her being was being tugged.

This felt entirely different from regular sickness she had ever experienced. It wasn't a dizzy spell, either. Tears welled in her eyes. What was she going to do?

She swallowed her fear. There was only one thing she could think of doing, as silly as it sounded in her own mind.

She could fight back.

Shutting her eyes as tightly as she could and grinding her teeth to stop her them from chattering, she imagined the string. Long and delicate and silvery, it disappeared into the far-away horizon of the darkness of her closed eyes.

Then, she imagined the string snapping.

Her body convulsed violently, sending Hazel down onto her hands and knees, scraping the parts of her hands that weren't bandaged against the rough rock of the cave floor. Nausea rose again, and she vomited. Hazel opened her eyes but she still saw nothing but the string in the darkness, the two broken sides slithering towards each other like snakes eagerly hunting a mouse. They would reach each other, eventually. It was inevitable. It was…

"Stop!" Her own voice echoed in the cavernous surroundings. She had snapped herself out of it.

She could no longer see the string.

Warmth flooded back into her limbs, and the numbness subsided. Hazel struggled to stand before her wobbling legs demanded she sit and rest. She breathed heavily and her throat burned. Something was definitely wrong. Wrong with the valley, wrong with the mine, wrong with her. Just outside, rain poured down from the sky and thunder roared. Large puddles formed around mouth of the cave. "When did it start raining?" Hazel asked, speaking to no one in particular. She rubbed her face, wiping away the wet of tears she hadn't realized she had shed. "How long have I been here? Yoba… _What's happening to me?_ "

As she sat, she thought of the trees outside. She thought of the princess, running from evil, only to be trapped again. She thought about how she refused to be that princess.

With great effort, Hazel pushed herself up. She took in her surroundings. A few feet away was a sign, punctured with stakes by a hole in the ground and a ladder leading into its depths. _JOJACORP OPERATIONS IN PROGRESS_ , the sign read. _NO TRESSPASSING_.

Hazel was fairly certain it was impossible to trespass on public land, but she shook the thought away. She just needed to check on whatever they were doing, then get out of this Yoba-forsaken town as soon as she could. She crept to the pit, and tested the ladder. It seemed sturdy enough.

Hazel took a deep breath and lowered herself into the darkness below.

* * *

 **THE WIZARD**

Rasmodius convulsed, falling off his stool and crashing onto the floor with a loud thud. He caught himself mere seconds before his nose smashed onto the wooden ground, though the palms of his hands burned from the impact. The fall knocked his hat off his head and sent it tumbling into some dark corner of the tower.

Ignoring the dizziness and the nausea, the man crawled over to the table nearest to his cauldron. His hands grasped the edge of the solid and heavy piece of furniture and he slowly, carefully, pulled himself onto his feet. The wizard ran his hands through his usually wild hair, which sweat had dampened and caused to cling to his face. He looked around his tower, dazed and throughly confused. All of the candles had burned down to stubs. Other than the small glow of light coming from the flame under his cauldron, the room was blanketed in an oppressive darkness. A loud crack of thunder rumbled so loudly he felt it in his gut.

Rasmodius didn't think much about the darkness or of the storm, though. He didn't think much about his burning hands, or his missing hat, or the spinning room, or his turning stomach. Rasmodius could only focus on a singular thought.

She had broken their connection.

 _She had broken their connection._

He had felt it. He had felt her snap the string that linked the two of them. The strangest thing wasn't even that she had cut the magical connection he had thus far assumed she had created. No, it was the fact that he felt the connection returning. Spindly threads of his magic deep within him writhed and twisted, reaching desperately out into the world to connect back to hers.

They were bound. Stars above, _he was bound to her_.

The wizard swore aloud. He was a fool, an absolute _fool_ , not to have noticed that they had been bound together. Rasmodius had planned to wait. He was going to follow tradition, to bide his time until the farmer came to him to bind her to the valley and let her heal the land. Yet the land still rotted beneath his feet, and the woman that was supposed to save it was now instead bound to _him_.

His sigils had never failed at blocking her magic, then. Now, their magic was intertwined – her energy just as much a part of him as his own.

He was a fool, he repeated to himself. A fool, a fool, an absolute _fool_ not to have noticed.

A mix of fury and fear rose within him. Whatever entity that had bound the two of them together had done it without him noticing, and had presumedly done it without the farmer's permission, given she had attempted to break their connection.

Tradition be damned. He needed to talk to this woman. Soon.

The wizard stepped into the dark of his tower, moving slowly around unseen furniture until he felt the bookshelf he needed. He groped around the shelves, before finally finding what he sought – a small deck of glossy cards. A gift, from Dodona.

Making his way back to the low light of his cauldron, the wizard cleared space on the nearby table. He never had a talent for divination or revelatory magic, but he needed answers and was willing to try. The cards were backed with elaborate designs of lush forests, which moved and danced in the light from the fire. Leaves shook in a breeze and a rabbit rushed into a bush. The other sides of the cards were completely blank – at least, for the moment.

Rasmodius shuffled the cards the best he could, straining his memory for any magical techniques that could help him. Annoyingly, nothing came to him. He sighed in defeat, hoping instead that the fact that the two of them were bound would make up for his lack of skill in this school of magic. In fact, he would have tried something like this much earlier if he knew the two of them were bound together and that he would not just be relying on his own abilities.

"The farmer," he said to the deck, trying his best to imagine the face of the woman as he had seen it in the sleep-vision of her he had received when she had first arrived. He flipped over the first card. The farmer's face beamed back at him, blurry as if in a dream but nonetheless distinctly hers. The colors of her face and hair were soft and flattering, and the gentle arch of her lips bloomed into a smile as she laid her bright and intelligent eyes upon him. The card's interpretation of the woman was exceedingly flattering, he noted with some level of surprise.

"Where is she," he asked again, flipping the second card. The card's result filled him with a cold dread.

The second card showed him the mouth of the mine.

"What will she do there," he asked a third and final time, and turned over the third card. The image was of the farmer again. An image her pretty face and soft colors, but instead of smiling happily at him she was lying on the cold stone ground of the dark mine. And she was bleeding. Badly. Shadows loomed menacingly over her unmoving body, though the perpetrators themselves lurked just outside the vision the card showed him. A surprised and alarmed grunt escaped him. Something was going to happen to her in the mines – something bad.

Rasmodius had no love for the woman, but he certainly couldn't get much information from corpse. He left the cards where they were and quickly covered his cauldron. Forgoing wasting time to find his hat somewhere in the dark of the tower, Rasmodius grabbed a heavy cloak that hung near the front door and slung it over his shoulders. It would take him some time to reach the mine. Nevertheless, he was going to try. She needed help, and he needed answers.

Rasmodius swung open his door and stepped into the pouring rain.


	7. Chapter 7

**THE FARMER**

Though she was only a few floors down into the mine, Hazel couldn't shake the feeling of being swallowed whole by the earth. Endless stone and gloom surrounded her, the monotony only broken by the occasional forgotten lantern or cropping of stalactites and stalagmites that grinned threateningly at her like rows of shark teeth.

Not long after her descent all traces of natural light had been snuffed out by the stale darkness of the damp, cavernous mineshafts. Hazel had only the pale, flickering light of a rusted lantern she had plucked from the cave wall and lit with the last match in the "Stardrop Saloon" branded matchbox she had received from Gus's bar a week or so after she first arrived. Sad and unsteady, the small flame just barely illuminated a foot around her. The resulting impression of the mine was very oppressive and discombobulating… A labyrinth of sunless earthen corridors.

The fingertips of Hazel's empty hand brushed against the cool wall of the old mine as she walked – an attempt to keep herself on the correct path in the maze of branching walkways and twisting corridors. She had yet to see any more signage indicating where Joja Corp's operations might be, and decided instead to take what seemed like the most well-worn path downward. Hazel noted, with some level of confusion, that she saw nothing that suggested any recent human activity – Joja Corp or otherwise. All lanterns she passed were extinguished with many rusted shut; the path she followed was timeworn but with none of the fresh tracks that suggested recent use.

It was all very spooky, Hazel decided. She was reminded of the haunted house one of the fraternities had put on during her freshman year at university, and caught herself turning the mine's corners with the same level of trepidation as she had when she was expecting some poorly-costumed senior to jump out at her screaming and backlit by storm of fake fog and strobe lights.

Hazel hoped her current excursion would end better than that experience had. Her then-dormmate, an easily frightened 20-something with a lithe frame and a claw-like grip, had joined her and screamed bloody murder at every jump scare. Hazel, adrenaline pumping, had instinctively reacted to a particularly blood-curdling scream of theirs and punched one of the performers as hard as she could – breaking the nose of the school's star girdball player with a loud _crack._

She wasn't allowed back into that haunted house the next Spirit's Eve.

The famer continued her painfully slow creep around the perimeter of what, from what little she could tell, was a particularly large and cavernous room. She paid special attention to her feet to make sure she did not trip. Constantly feeling the wall, the indents became deeper and more orderly as she walked. Was this part of the mine made by humans, then?

"I should have brought a flashlight," Hazel mumbled to herself, stepping around a sizeable rock .

 _"…should have brought a flashlight,"_ the cave echoed back to her.

Hazel groaned. The cave groaned back.

The wall she followed kept going and going, never curving into the large room Hazel had first assumed she had entered. Her voice and footsteps lost their echoes. Perhaps she had entered another corridor without noticing? Hazel paused to get her bearings.

Then, she heard something.

A chirping noise. Soft at first, then louder and louder and louder. There was also… A fluttering noise?

"Bats!" Hazel yelped with surprise – the bats outside the cave had all succumbed to rot, how had these survived? She ducked. The farmer barely avoided being hit face-on by the colony, though one brushed against the top of her head. Hazel's hands shot to her crown, patting down her hair and wiggling her fingers and dropping her lantern in the panic.

The glass of the lantern shattered as it hit the ground, and the flame flittered out of existence.

Hazel gasped, no longer interested in the bat colony that continued their frenzied flight down the shaft. "No!" She dropped to her knees, feeling around the now pitch black corridor for the candle. "No no no no no, come on, _please_ don't do this to me!" Her hands met glass shards, rusted metal, and a still-warm candle… but no flame.

A noise slipped through her lips, half an aggressive grunt and half a mournful whimper. "Yoba, _please_ …" Hazel ran her hands through her hair. How would she be able to see the path into the mine now? More importantly, _how would she be able to leave?_ Her throat tightened, hysteria threatening to overtake her. She was trapped.

Much, much worse than being blacklisted from a haunted house, then.

"Think, Hazel, think…" She scoured her memory, tearing through every recollection of the few camping trips her father was able to take her on as a child for scraps of pertinent information.

The only memory that floated to mind was of her father. She had been six at the time, maybe seven. The two of them were in her childhood car - a beat-down brown van that was older than Hazel was - and driving to a campsite. Her father was talking, rambling on and on about forest and camping safety. Hazel had tuned him out, instead staring dreamily at the trees that towered above them. "Are you listening, Hazel?" He had said softly but sternly, ever the epitome of patience. "The wilderness can be a dangerous place – you have to remember to keep calm if anything ever happens to you."

Hazel had wiggled in her seat laughed it off. The world wasn't scary to her, yet. Nature was kind and soft, all sugar-sweet flowers and baby animals. Nature wasn't… like this.

The farmer tore her attention away from the nostalgia of childhood and the comfort of her father's wrinkled and ever-tired eyes. She breathed deeply, in and out. Calm. Right. She could do calm.

A few seconds passed. "I can do this. I can escape. I'll just retrace my steps," she reassured herself, standing and groping the darkness until she found the wall. Eventually feeling out the direction she had been going, she turned around to face path back to the surface. She took a step…

And collided with a stone wall.

"Shit!" Hazel cradled her forehead, which still throbbed from the impact. "Wrong way, then."

The farmer turned around and went the other way, only to run into yet another wall.

On and on this went, fumbling about for the path she had just taken and finding nothing but dead-ends.

A stream of curses flowed from her mouth. What had happened? A cave-in, maybe? Wouldn't she have heard it, though?

After what felt like an eternity, Hazel sobbed softly and sat on the hard ground beneath her, forsaking calm and resigning herself to her fate. Thick, hot tears flowed down her cheeks. She was exhausted to her very core. Tired of farm work, tired of nightmare towns, tired of labyrinthine mines, tired of _trying so hard_ and only meeting roadblock after roadblock. "I'm going to die here," she whimpered, holding herself tight. "I'm going to die in this awful town, in these Yoba-forsaken mines…"

For some time she sat, alone in the endless dark. She sat, and she grieved. She grieved for herself, for the life she left behind and the future the silent cave-in had stolen from her. Hazel wiped away mournful tears, but they just kept coming. "At least I'll see grandpa again soon," she mused bitterly. Hazel shuddered. She wasn't cold, but she held herself even tighter anyways. "What a way to go. All because I can't light a stupid candle."

She sighed, the breath barely leaving her lungs before the miraculous happened.

The candle fluttered back to life.

"Ah!" Hazel squawked, scrambling on her hands and knees towards the flame. The light was even brighter than before, the flame dancing wildly on the wick of the candle. "Thank Yoba," she sobbed.

The lantern was broken beyond use, so she grasped the life-saving candle in her hand instead. Hot wax dripped down the side and burned her skin, but Hazel didn't care. She could see. That meant that, just maybe, she'd be able to find her way out.

Hazel looked around herself. She stood in an almost box-shaped alcove of rock. There was one exit – a narrow passageway that sloped downward. The path was definitely not the one she had been following… But there were no signs of a cave in. Curiosity welled within her, but Hazel sighed and walked on. Stardew Valley was steeped in strangeness, the least of it being a cave moving around her. All that mattered was finding a way out… Better to not look the gift horse in the mouth.

The path turned and twisted wildly like a writhing snake, reaching desperately out to the womb of the earth. As Hazel descended the once dull and lifeless earthen walls seemed to take on a golden sheen under the swaying glow of the candle. Then suddenly, _sounds._ They faded in and out of existence, just specters of noise – a soft sigh, a whispered curse, the soft beat of drums and the wild melody of a lullaby. Shadows danced to the ghostly cacophony in the corners of her vision, only to disappear when the farmer turned to face them.

Hazel was worried, at first. Worried that she perhaps had hit her head, or eaten tainted food, or been slipped a hallucinogen… But the worry soon faded as the hypnotic and narcotic effect of the sensations blanketed her with calm. The back of her mind buzzed – she was welcome here, this is where she belonged, this is where she was _supposed to be._ Come deeper, deeper into the earth. Deeper and deeper and deeper and…

"Where am I?"

A room of stone. Glittering, golden stone, shining brighter than the midday sun. Hazel's eyes burned, but she could not look away. And then, doors. How many doors? At first look, one, then two. Hazel blinked and there were ten of them – blinked again, and there were three. Shining, organic doors of glimmering metals draped in blossoms of jewels. On them, marks – sigils of bright colors, pulsating and squirming under Hazel's gaze.

She blinked. Two doors. Another blink. One door. She blinked and blinked and blinked and the singular door yet stayed, tall and glistening and audaciously acting as if it had always been just a few steps in front of the woman. The buzzing in her brain grew. The door was for her, she knew – but not at that moment, not yet. The door was being saved for her, for her future. The door that opened the way to the womb of the earth was waiting.

For a moment Hazel forgot how to move, her mind deafened by the buzzing. Then, with great effort, she willed herself forward. One step, then two. Towards the door.

No doorknob. She put her hands on the metal – the sensation simultaneously intensely cold and fiercely hot. Hazel pushed and leaned. The door needed to open. There was no other way, no other doors. The door would wait for her but she would not wait for the door. She pushed and willed and finally…

The door disappeared.

Hazel stumbled, pressing her whole body against a door that no longer existed. When she finally righted herself, she looked up. In front of her, a humanoid shape sitting on a strange metal throne. They were covered head to toe in fine embellished cloth and gems that danced in the light, bedecked in fragrant flowers twisted together into crowns and bracelets.

The farmer stepped closer. She spoke to the person, a cautious but hopeful hello. No answer other than the whispers that flickered in and out just beyond her understanding. A foot away, then half a foot, and then, finally, she realized why she had received no answer.

Closed eyes, sunken cheeks, no breath… The person was dead.

Hazel screamed, stumbling backwards and into the sunken, robed form of yet another human body. There were more of them, she realized – dozens of them. They ranged in age, babies to the elderly, but each was dressed carefully in crowns of dried plants and fine jewelry as if they were monarchs of the forests. The room itself seemed to continue into an eternity, decorated with these bedazzled corpses.

Eventually, Hazel's scream died in her throat. Yet the air sung with whispers, and the buzzing remained.


	8. Chapter 8

**THE WIZARD**

Rasmodius had barely reached the crest of the hill when he felt the protections break.

Besides the rain, all had been still. The rotted muck of the small lake near the mines floated, totally stagnant except for the occasional bubbling of some yet-identified and noxious smelling gasses. The valley was deathly quiet save for the rattle of rain on tree bark; void of all of the bustle of life of the animals that usually filled the air with their twittering nature song. The only new sounds came from and died around him - the sharp cracks and soft rustles of his boots on underbrush, the labored heaving of his own breath.

Then, everything rippled.

Though he did not see a change, he _felt_ it. A punch of cold dread seeped into his bones. A pain, sharp and quick like a ripped-off bandage, punctured his gut. The protective sigils had been in the valley long before the wizard had. They were so familiar he had become blind to them, used as he was to the way their soft energies floated in the air.

But then, suddenly and violently, they were there no longer… and the valley felt emptier than ever before.

He instantly felt very exposed, as if the world were far too open, like the sky could swallow him up if it wished and he could do nothing to prevent it. The man looked into the expanse of swirling grey above him for just a moment – the gnarled and bare branches of the forest's trees were dark against the sky, their twisting bark sharp and jagged as a predator's teeth as they stretched chaotically around themselves like greedy hands that were ready to snatch and steal whatever they desired. Rain drops ran down his face and into his eyes. The wizard did not flinch.

The sky would not swallow him up, then… But the man had some idea of what the protections had been protecting, and they would certainly relish the opportunity to do as they wished to his fleshy human form.

Where the sky hesitated, the beasts would not.

Rasmodius swore and began to run towards the mine, pushing away dried-up plants and willing himself to ignore the way the tree branches whipped his cheeks raw in his haste. His boots slipped in the mud, and his lungs burned. He was unaccustomed to physical activities of any sort, but this was an emergency.

Throwing aside any previous caution, the wizard skidded onto the dirt footpath leading towards the mine and continued his sprint. Rasmodius had stayed away from the officially sanctioned trails and not-so-officially-sanctioned desire paths of the town. That in and of itself was not unusual for him – the man had gone days and weeks without talking to people before, and he was not one for flaunting his magical power to mundane folks.

This time, however, a sense of danger pressed especially heavy on his mind – there was something wrong with the townsfolk as well. He had seen them in the distance, seen their strange demeaner. Despite the horrid weather the townspeople wandered about as if they lived in paradise, minds hazy and seemingly blissfully unaware of the rot that permeated through their gardens and into their homes. Because of this he had taken even more obscure roads than usual, avoiding townsfolk with the all the skill and grace of a life-long introvert by weaving through trees and hurrying over empty rabbit dens to avoid the magic-fogged eyes of his fellow humans.

The rain poured harder as he ran, and though his eyes struggled to see more than a few feet in front of himself with any clarity he was able to make out a figure a short distance away. Tall and broad, the figure had a mop of wet grey hair and a heavy limp.

Rasmodius called out as loud as his burning lungs allowed. "Marlon!" The man did not turn. In his distraction, Rasmodius slipped in the mud – splattering the cool, mushy earth all over his hands and knees. " _Marlon!"_ He tried again, pushing himself off of the ground and sprinting again towards the older man.

Blessedly, Marlon turned.

"Rasmodius?!" The man half-yelled his reply with obvious surprise and confusion. The wizard found this entirely understandable given he figured he must have looked quiet the mess – thoroughly drenched and face covered in a dozen small cuts, wheezing terribly and painted clothing in mud.

"The protections," Rasmodius spat, barely able to push the words out of his blistering lungs. He was unusually curt, even more so than was common for him. It was not the time for pleasantries.

"The protections…?" Marlon tugged off his eyepatch. His fairy-stone eye shook slightly in his eye socket, and Marlon gritted his teeth as it rattled violently against his own skull. Then it flicked about before settling down and staring, intently and unmoving, at the mouth of the cave. Marlon cursed, low and bitterly. "The protections," he spoke in a hushed panic as understanding settled in.

"The farmer. She is in the mines." Rasmodius began speed walking towards the mine entrance.

"Could she have-"

"I do not know." Within seconds Rasmodius stood at the mouth of the mines, then turned to face his companion. "Do not follow me," he began, voice full of all of the authority he could muster. "Arm yourself. Wait by the entrance of the cave. If I am not back by next morning's light…" He swallowed. "…block the entrance to the cave."

Marlon's eyebrows shot upwards. "Block it?"

"Yes. I cannot guarantee what creatures will try to escape." Rasmodius paused for just a moment. The implication of his request - no, his command - were not lost on either of the men. "The lives of many outweigh the life of one," he spoke into the rain, trying to convince himself as much as Marlon. Rasmodius considered himself a relatively brave person but even he feared death, though he loathed to admit it.

Marlon's face hardened and he nodded. The grey-haired man had lived a long life, filled with more adventure and daring-do than most non-magical mortals could ever hope for… He of all people, Rasmodius figured, would understand the danger of beasts that needed to be so thoroughly guarded by ancient magics. Still, there was a sadness to him… a mournful glint in his one human eye, a shrinking of his shoulders. Before him stood a man accustomed to grief, accustomed to losing friends and comrades to the call of battle. Rasmodius had very few friends, and would be flattered by his kindness in any other scenario. But the wizard had no time for kindness at that moment… no time for sentimentality or weakness. Kindness was a reason to doubt, a reason to think of what one wished not to leave behind in their own absence.

Kindness stopped people from hunting down their possibly evil-minded peers.

Kindness stopped people from saving towns from monsters.

Kindness killed.

Perhaps noticing the other man's demeaner, Marlon said no good-byes and wished him no safe journeys. He simply reached into a hidden pocket and stepped forward, pressing a cold piece of metal into the wizard's still ink-stained hands. "This was a gift from Gil," he explained simply. "It's kept me safe."

Even in the near-blinding rain, Rasmodius knew what this was. Small but heavy, the silvery trinket was carved in swirling runes more detailed than any mortal could fathom, let alone create. Just looking at the thing made him a bit dizzy. There were remnants of magic on the medallion as well, useless and faded but still detectable – like an old-stain on an article of well-loved clothing. It was old magic. Fae magic.

Rasmodius bit the inside of his cheek. The wizard knew a little of what had happened to Marlon and Gil. He did not know their entire story as he figured it was none of his business and did not wish to pry, but he knew some… bits and pieces that slipped out when one or both of the pair were particularly drunk and babbled on before Rasmodius could stop them.

Theirs was a classic story of youth and folly and star-crossed romance – a human and a fae falling in love. Most people would find it terribly romantic, but Rasmodius could not help but find it tragically sad. Love conquered all in the end, perhaps, but not without ravaging the lives of all it touched… A non-magical mortal, injured and cursed with an eye that saw more than he was ever supposed to, and a fae, stripped from his magic and thrown into the plane of the mortals to age and rot and die.

Still, they seemed happy. Married. In love.

Rasmodius fought back a scoff at his own bitterness. While an accomplished wizard, _that_ particular area of his life had been filled only with tragedy after tragedy. Perhaps the two men's story was simply a bit too close to home for own comfort.

"Thank you," the wizard said simply, avoiding his companion's eyes. He had no time for pleasantries of " _are you sure"_ s and " _no,_ I _couldn't possibly"_ s, so he just slipped the dead charm into a deep pocket and turned back to face the cave's mouth.

He thought he heard Marlon say something as he stepped out of the rain and into the cool, damp cave, but Rasmodius did not turn around. He just groped the stone walls for a lantern and lit it with a modern lighter he had tucked away safely and dryly in a pouch by his waist. A simple fire spell would work, he presumed, but Rasmodius was a traditional and a ritual-focused magic user. He had neither the time nor the certainty needed to chant the spell and draw symbols into the dirt or find the necessary herbs that he cursed himself for not having the forethought to bring.

With his light source secured, Rasmodius gritted his teeth and walked to a manhole nearby. He did his best to knock the wet from his boots, then descended into the oppressive darkness below.


	9. Chapter 9

**THE FARMER**

Hazel couldn't leave.

Two steps back the way she came, then: nothing. She was stuck, unmoving… Like a bad prank, like shoes glued to the ground, like plastic wrap taped on a doorway. Her mind willed her body back the way she came but the body stayed, compelled to linger by the golden catacombs and its strange menagerie of corpses… As if the body thought it belonged there.

More wax from her candle dripped down and onto her skin. The burning pain felt faded, distant... As if someone was describing to her the sensation of the hot, bubbling sting on her fingers instead of her experiencing it for herself.

The crypt was strangely beautiful.

The faded whispers that filled the air became louder, a swirling vortex of hushed yet animated murmurs. The buzzing the back of her mind had seemed deafening and all-consuming, yet the ghostly sounds cut through the static like a bell. Still, she couldn't understand the voices. The invisible tongues spoke their unknown words in sing-song tones.

" _He me mi seva…"_

 _"Lave le somol?"_

 _"Me te ulusale seva, anesor cava-"_

The voices piled on, a vortex of disembodied excitement, chattering to each other but never to her. They were like the old women at the shrine Hazel's father dragged her to each Sunday morning when she was a child – gossiping about others when they thought no one was listening.

 _"Roc serer…"_

 _"He te ose."_

 _"Rit?"_

Hazel spun in place, searching for the voices. Shadows darted in her peripheral vision yet nothing but the dead greeted her, bedecked as they were in their shining funerary splendor.

Hazel tried to swallow. Her mouth was dry. "Hello?" Her voice held a distinctly physical quality against the wisps of disembodied noise, hoarse and shaking and frightened but hers and comfortingly _real._

 _"He lori ne sire-"_

 _"Lero!"_

"Please, anyone!" With great effort, Hazel took one step deeper into the catacombs. One step turned to two, then three, then four… "Please, I need to leave! I don't know how to leave!"

One of the ghostly voices began to sing, soft and sweet. Another began to cry, and Hazel was tempted to join it.

"What's happening?!" Hazel pleaded with the voices as she walked, slowly, deeper into the earth.

Her eyes swept over each of the many bodies and their thrones, searching for the place the voices were coming from. A hiding prankster, perhaps, or a camouflaged speaker, or…. Hazel paused in front of one body, a teenage girl with freckled skin and long copper hair. Some of the corpses were better preserved than the rest – the best of them unnervingly so. The girl's lithe frame was wrapped in robes of the deepest blue, her hair peppered with small white flowers and pretty ribbons.

The farmer wondered if this was some elaborate prank. Perhaps some it was some twisted TV show special that filled a room with dummies and actors to scare her. That was a rational explanation, Hazel decided. An unlikely one, but a rational one. After all, some of the corpses looked so fresh it was as if they were only sleeping, as if they could open their eyes at any moment and begin to talk. Hazel's gaze stayed on the girl's mouth and she waited for a moment. The corpse did not speak.

Perhaps a dream? Unlikely again, but… The farmer pinched the skin on the back the hand that held the flame, digging dirty fingernails into flesh. Unsurprisingly, the pinch hurt ever so slightly. Still she did not wake up, did not bolt upwards from her own bed in a cold sweat. She simply stood there, suddenly feeling a bit silly for pinching herself.

With a sigh, Hazel's gaze wandered back to the body and eventually to the girl's jewelry. Silver trinkets winked at her from the body's ears and neck, and Hazel cautiously reached out to touch the girl's arm… To shake her awake, to yell and cry and scream that this joke had gone on too long and was not funny. But then, as her eyes were following the delicate chain of her necklace, Hazel noticed something else. A gash, thin but deep and gory and crusted over in age, straight across the body's neck.

Hazel yelped as her hand snapped back towards herself. She took a step back and covered her mouth, hoping to fight down a growing swell of nausea. "That can't be real. Can't be real, that can't be…"

 _"Lave le etode?"_

 _"Cipe nar etode ose–"_

"Just… Shut up! I need to think. I need to…" Hazel cried. Her whole body shook so badly she struggled to keep her balance. The voices continued. "I just need help… I just want out of this nightmare!"

 _"Nate nar."_

 _"No pe lero ose!"_

 _"He ulisete."_

 _"Hazel?"_

The woman's head shot up. Her name. That was _definitely_ her name.

"Yes! I'm Hazel!"

 _"Hazel?"_ The voice was hard to make out and more distant than the others, as if she was being called to by a static-filled radio from across a large field. _"Hazel?"_

"Yes, that's me!"

 _"Hazel?"_

The woman began to run down the corridor of corpses and towards the voice. "I'm Hazel!"

 _"Hazel? Where are you..?"_

The voice faded into the others. "No, please, keep talking! I'm Hazel! I need help!"

As she ran, the voices changed. Unknown words morphed into familiar – albeit occasionally archaic – ones.

 _"Didst the maiden summon us?"_

 _"Poor dear, she's early."_

 _"Probably a mistake…"_

 _"Hazel? Is that you?"_

"Yes! It's me!" Hazel huffed as she ran. "Who are you?"

 _"Hazel? Hazel, why are you here?"_ That voice… It was getting closer, and so Hazel slowed to a walk. That voice, it was familiar, it was… _"My little Poppy, you shouldn't be here."_

It was her grandfather's.

The woman continued her march, aching feet against unforgiving stone sending echoes into the bones of the cavern's inhabitants ( _like a nightmare from childhood_ , she realized, _like the dreams of hallways that only ended when they swallowed you whole)._ Hazel had no idea how long she had been walking, nor how long she had spent so far under the earth – time seemed tilted and sloppy, thick as syrup and equally as messy. Time had become disinterested in that place.

The gallery of glittering corpses continued on and on, deeper and deeper until even the candle light that the resplendent walls sent scattering like a sun-gold disco ball struggled to fight back the darkness that had begun to encroach and encircle the place like a briar patch.

After some time – ( _How long? How long?)_ " _I should have bought a watch…"_ – the procession of corpses came to an abrupt end. The tunnel continued as far as Hazel could see (which, admittedly, was not very far in the suddenly poor light), an ominous promise of more bodies to come. But at the moment, that did not matter so much as the bodies that were already there. One particular body. The newest body.

Her grandfather's body.

As eerily preserved as the girl with hair of copper, the dead man looked as if he was sleeping. Perhaps even peacefully so, if not for the general air of dream-like unease that permeated his final resting place. His hair was white and thinning but his beard was long. His wrinkled form was wrapped in a velvet fabric dyed the deepest shade of purple Hazel had ever seen. Purple stones dangled from his ear lobes and a crown of dried orange poppies rested regally on his head. Poppies had always been her grandfather's favorite.

Hazel whimpered.

She had been told her grandfather was cremated.

Obviously, she had been told wrong.

 _"Hazel, you shouldn't be here… You do not belong in the Great Hall…"_

The mouth of the dead man did not move. The voice came from within and without – from her, from the world, as if some permeating thing sent the words to her ears instead of the physical workings of vocal cords.

Hazel shivered. "The great what? What do you mean? Grandpa, _what's happening?_ How are you speaking?! I thought you were dead! I mean… I guess you still are… But…"

 _"Where is Rasmodius..?"_

"Who's Rasmodius?"

 _"We all sense it… We sense the Valley… Hm… Something is wrong."_

 _"Very wrong,"_ another whisper agreed.

Yet another ghostly voice spoke up. _"Wherefore hast the lady not reviv'd the Valley?"_

The voices were piling on now, new voices breaking in and talking over the others in a swirling vortex of opinions stated as if she were not there to hear them. Small pains bloomed in the woman's head, the beginnings of a headache.

 _"Poor dear… Poor little thing…"_

 _"I must admit, I am quite amazed. The Valley ails, and yet she summons us still. How odd."_

 _"Probably a mistake! Poor thing…."_

 _"Thee believeth this wast a blund'r?!"_

 _"No duh!"_ That voice seemed younger than the rest, the farmer noticed. High-pitched and cracked, like that of a young teenage boy. Hazel thought again of the copper-haired girl with the sliced neck. She thought of the bodies of babies she had seen on her way down, children whose tiny forms were swathed in finery unbefitting of those so new to the world. How many children were entombed here? She shivered. The young voice continued. _"If you had just cast an eyeball you could answered that for yourself!"_

 _"I doth not has't eyes with which to cast!"_

 _"I didn't mean that_ literally! _"_

 _"Isahi nar etode ose cerir..."_

 _"Hazel, are you here with Rasmodius?"_ Her grandfather spoke again. His voice was familiar, strong and deep against the cacophony of whispers. Shelter in a storm. _"I do not sense him. He should have… Hm…"_

"Grandpa?"

 _"Why did you call us here, little Poppy? You do not belong in the Great Hall."_

Hazel threw her hands in the air. The small flame panicked in her hand, flittering and nearly extinguishing itself in the abruptness of her gesture. "I don't know even what the Great Hall is!" If things weren't so urgent and frightening there would be something darkly humous about the whole experience, Hazel figured. There she was, yelling at the corpse of her years-dead grandfather. A scenario fitting for a particularly bad horror b-movie. "Grandpa, please, focus! I need help! I need you to tell me what's going on in the valley. How do I leave?! How do I- _"_

Down the hall, somewhere hidden deep in the dark, a sound arose. It creaked and grinded against itself, accompanied by a dull stomping. _Thud thud, thud thud, thud thud…_

 _"You need to leave, little Poppy…"_

 _"Leave,"_ the other voices agreed. " _Leave. You need to leave. Leave…"_

"Grandpa, please!"

The thuds increased in number and in volume _._ The sound of footsteps, she realized. The mysterious creaking continued.

 _"Leave, or you will join us."_

"But – _"_ Orbs of red pierced the inky darkness where no bodies were enthroned, bobbing jewels of blood-red that were closing in on her fast. Nervousness ate at her insides but desperation stayed her feet. "I need to know, I just need a little help! Please!"

 _"Find Rasmodius. That is my help for you, Poppy, that is my advice. Find him! Now_ , leave _!"_

The strange noise was so close she could practically _feel_ the sound, with the hairs on her neck raised. Still the woman did not look back to see what stalked her in the dark, she had no time for that. She had no way to fight but her calloused and sore fists, likely unfitting weapons for anything stronger than a human… No time for curiosity, then. She needed to leave.

Hazel turned towards the entrance, intending to do just that. The farmer considered herself a relatively brave person – especially given the circumstances – but even she feared the mysterious dangers of piercing red orbs and ominous creaking forms. How she would make her way to the surface was still an unknown… Her body had not wanted to leave so there seemed to be nothing to do but go deeper, but panic has the ability to make children of geniuses, so she turned to run back the way she came without much thought.

She was going to escape, somehow. That was her plan. But the unseen creaking creatures had different ideas.

A noise cut through the air. A _woosh._ And then…

 _Thunk._

Teeth rattled, the ground came rushing upwards as her body rushed downwards to meet it.

Hazel couldn't pinpoint exactly which moment she passed out.

She just felt the pain, bright and throbbing on the back of her skull, and then there was nothing but unseeing darkness.

* * *

 **THE WIZARD**

Rasmodius had a list of ideas.

He had no evidence, of course – no hard facts to understand what madness compelled the valley's newest arrival to act with such erraticism. An exercise of futility, trying to understand her, yet he tried nonetheless. The list itself was ridiculous and unrealistic, and he knew as much ( _alien, fae, vengeful spirit, just an idiot…)_ , but he needed something to preoccupy himself. And so, he thought.

His mind had begun to wander as he traveled deeper into the mines, easily bored by the monotony of stone and accustomed as he was to the constant detailed thought required in his day-to-day workings. He had ran into nothing particularly dangerous other than a few areas where stone crumbled threateningly under his weight.

Rasmodius sighed and carefully made his way down an increasingly steep tunnel. The wizard was following traces of magic, of _her_ magic, soft and shaky but distinct against the cold stone. With knowledge of their _predicament_ (flabbergasted as he still was for failing to notice their binding) it was easy enough. Too easy, in fact, even bound as they were. She was vulnerable, so incredibly vulnerable – no protections, none of the hard edges or thorns forming around her magic that came so commonly to most magicians as they matured.

Every magician's aura was distinct and sensual, if one had the time to notice. As identifying as a fingerprint. And in the labyrinthine and so far relatively safe tunnels of the mine, the purple-haired man had the time to notice.

Rasmodius was once told the feeling of truly _experiencing_ the magic of another was similar to synesthesia. A crisscross of aura and brain, like tasting words. Usually, the experience was a fairly intimate one, and the man felt a youth-like embarrassment as he reached out to brush against the woman's magic.

She was… fresh. Lively. The woman felt like rebirth. She was the beginning of spring, the scent of newly blooming flowers, the refreshing cool of morning dew, the subtle sweetness of honeysuckle on the tongue. She was not at all like the menacing aura he was expecting.

"Stars above," he sighed, suddenly very grateful to be alone in the dark. The man could feel the heat rising in his face. Dipping into her magic was almost… _enjoyable_.

He decided to keep his distance as he walked, following her string but not touching it. And so he did, on and on until the earthen walls grew suspiciously familiar. Concern tangled itself in his gut. He knew this place, it had been years, but he knew…

His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the door. Glittering and bedazzled and organic, the gaudy entrance stood out against the dull stone like a flower blooming in frost.

Rasmodius hesitated. The place wasn't exactly sacred, but it wasn't exactly mundane – the living were not usually welcome in the Hall, but her magic still bloomed and beckoned from behind the door.

He could walk in very easily. The protections were gone. Just a gentle push…

Cool metal against ink-stained fingertips, then an open door. Golden walls, glittering like the mid-day sun, and the procession of corpses on their thrones. Gingerly, he stepped into the crypt. One step turned to two, then three…

At first, all was quiet. Then, he heard the creaking and a _thunk._ He hurried and before long he saw _her_ , saw the woman that tasted of rebirth, crumpled ungracefully in a small pool of her own blood.

Around her loomed skeleton soldiers with eyes of shining red. Their bleach-white fingers grasped at her limbs, slowly pulling her body deeper and deeper into the inky depths beyond the corpses.

That was, they were pulling her. Until they saw him.

* * *

 **Author's note:**

Shout out to ! I didn't feel like coming up with a whole conglang jue fot this chapter lol


	10. Chapter 10

**THE WIZARD**

For a split moment, shorter than a blink of an eye, Rasmodius panicked.

He had no weapons. He figured himself brash and foolish, running out so uncharacteristically unprepared – he had no spells ready for use, no potions blended. He had a half-full lighter, a still-wet cloak, and himself.

Panic is a good way to lose in a hurry, he thought. Let the panic be smart, he willed himself, let it be adrenaline, let it be _thought_ , let it be…

White finger bones creaked and moaned, moving without muscles as they slowly released their grip on the farmer's flesh. Even in the low light, he could see bright bruises blooming under the woman's skin where they had held her.

She would hurt in the morning, but that was a thought for another time. First, he had to make sure they both _lived_ to morning.

The skeletons were straightening up. Soon, they would come for him.

One creature stretched a hand over its own ribs, wrapping skeleton bones over skeleton bone, and pulled. With a _crack_ that made the wizard wince, it pulled out one of its own rib bones.

Rasmodius needed to think. He needed to think. He needed to…

He had studied the undead before. He had not specialized in their study by any means, but he knew enough to trap ordinary undead. Of course, that required time and preparation, neither of which he had…

A _woosh_ cut through the air as one of the skeletons, now sans one rib bone, chucked the piece of itself towards the man with startling strength. The makeshift projectile barely missed his head.

"Think!"

The books. He thought of the books, guides he had read long ago when he was still new to the valley… It had talked about…

 _Crack._ Another bone ripped free.

Talked about…

 _Crack._

 _Crack._

 _Crack_.

"Of course!" Sentinels. They must be the sentinels. They were guarding the Hall from trespassers, from, from…

From him. From her.

From the living.

 _Woosh!_

Rasmodius could not fully dodge in time and the bone grazed his cloak, cutting the fabric straight across despite being an otherwise blunt object.

Think! Think, think, think... The woman? The farmer, whose body laid in a pool of her own ruby red blood, had not yet bound herself to the Valley. Yet she had a promise, and that promise had _power_.

The woman was bound to him, and so _he_ had power.

At least, he hoped he did.

He did not exactly have another plan to try out instead.

"Halt!" His voice reverberated in the relative quiet of the cave, and the skeletons instantly obeyed. They froze in place, many half-throw. "We are not intruders," he told them as he slowly creeped forward, palms outwards, towards the body of the woman.

The skeletons did not move.

Careful not to touch them, Rasmodius thanked his lucky stars his gamble had paid off against the creatures. Making his way to the woman, he crouched and rolled her onto her back. The same pretty face he had seen in his dream-vision and in the cards lolled slightly. Her face was painted with thick strokes of wet blood.

She had no weapons on her, and while her spring-like aura washed over him like tidal waves there was no indication she had actually used her magic to do anything… Had she not noticed the creatures that stalked her? That seemed unlikely.

Mad woman, he wanted to curse at her, coming so unprepared!

Rasmodius ripped his cloak from the tear caused by the bone. It was still wet, but it would have to do. Quickly wrapping the damp cloth against a particularly bad cut on her forehead to stop the bleeding, the man was again struck by how familiar she looked. Something about the shape of her face, the curve of her nose, the shade of her skin… It was all very familiar… It was like…

She looked like the previous farmer.

"Stars above," he cursed.

She looked like Connor.


	11. Chapter 11

**THE WIZARD**

 _[20-odd Years Ago, just outside the Grand Academy]_

In the distance, stone towers and spires stretched their snow-white bodies upwards, scraping against the cloudless blue sky and taunting the glory of the sun with their own sparkling and inorganic grandeur. The buildings taunted Rasmodius as well, the promise of civilization that they were – the promise of cool libraries and well-organized labs and well-aged wine (the ale was more popular, he had noticed with some level of unearned disdain towards its drinkers, but far too bitter for his tastes).

The buildings were a testament to the force of humankind, a citadel of magic built into and onto earth. Yet all the young man could do was stare longingly at the construction, spectacular and shining even as an increasingly small dot in the distance. Rasmodius dragged his feet miserably as he trudged onward, not caring that he was caking his once-spotless leather boots in dusty dirt.

"Rasmodius!" Far in front of him, his instructor – ex-instructor now, he supposed – called out to him from atop the crest of the small hill Rasmodius had been slowly and begrudgingly making his way up. "You are falling quite behind, dear boy. Hurry, or we shall not arrive before sun-fall!"

The young wizard grumbled something akin to a response and hurried only as much as he needed to in order to avoid being reprimanded by the elder wizard. Normally, he had nothing but respect for his ex-instructor – themself a short human with sheered grey hair, rich dark skin, stern eyes, a kind smile, and a brain bursting with arcane knowledge. But Rasmodius inhabited the purgatory of age that was young adulthood… He was old enough to be a considered a man, yet young enough to mope about the responsibilities that adulthood entailed. So, though usually keen to follow rules and order, the wizard held within him a war between two sides – the side that enjoyed direction, and the side that wanted to throw a tantrum about being forced to trudge through the forest.

This bloody conflict manifested itself as the decision to walk very _, very_ slowly.

"Stars above," the young man cursed under his increasingly heavy breath. His lungs burned. He was not particularly used to so much walking, slow as that walking may be.

Rasmodius continued forward, losing himself in thought. If, mere weeks ago, he had been asked about his own future, he would have said that he knew what his life was going to entail. He had focus, he had direction! Graduating from the Grand Academy with high marks, with _honors_ no less, was supposed to be his ticket to any position he wished. _Supposed_ being the key word, he thought bitterly. He had applied to many positions that seemed the perfect fit for him: researching, maintaining decades-long rituals, even an administrative position at the academy itself.

And yet.

And _yet._

There he was, far away from his beloved beacons of order and civilization, going deeper into the chaos of nature.

The professor was waiting for Rasmodius, having had stopped for him just beyond the crest. They adjusted their hat, a heavy, velvety, and pointed thing that positively screamed _"I do magic!"_. Rasmodius thought the pointed-hat bit so popular with his fellow magical humans was a bit tacky, but without the necessary disposable income to spend on things like actually fashionable hats he had instead made do with his hat-less head and had kept hair out of his face by sweeping his purple strands into a low ponytail. He had tied his hair loosely with a piece of thin black ribbon removed from one of his other cloaks, though he hadn't bothered to do any trimming so the thing trailed long down his back and tickled his neck.

"Do you need rest?" His instructor asked tentatively.

"I am," Rasmodius huffed, " _fine_ , Professor Hernández."

He was not fine. His face was flushed with heat.

"Of course," his elder mused, snapping their fingers and turning to continue their hike. A sudden chill came over Rasmodius. "You may call me Kash if you wish. There is no need for formalities anymore."

"I rather like formalities, Professor," Rasmodius grumbled as he greedily reveled in the sudden cool weather that had manifested itself only around him. "My thanks," he added.

"You are an intelligent and capable wizard, Rasmodius. You would be able to cool yourself if you only put your mind to it."

"Thank you, Professor, but I know my limits." His limits being most magics beyond the schools that required careful and concise control. Traditional magics – ceremonial workings and potion brewing and sigil creation – came easier to him than breathing. He was good with books. He was good with order.

"I implore you to reconsider your stance. Wild magic is not as wild as the name entails, and surely would behoove you with your new position –"

"I am _fine,_ Professor."

He was not fine, and he knew as much. Wild magic, the ability to tap into the arcane energy without the bells and whistles associated with the more traditional schools, eluded him. Rasmodius could feel magic, sense the arcane energies that vibrated and saturated the world around him, but he struggled to grasp them and shape them into manifestations of his will through said will alone.

And yet, the Council had offered him, a master of all things orderly and planned, a position that required him to work with _wild magic mages_.

He could have turned the position down. He figured he should have.

But he didn't, of course. For who would turn down the Council? They knew much, and with the recent placement of an old friend of his as Head Seer of the Council, he was inclined to trust their decisions…

"So be it," the elder wizard said simply, breaking his train of thought.

The pair continued. They walked and walked until Rasmodius felt as if his feet were about to fall off, until the cold spell dissipated and left him with only his own sweat, until his waterskin was dry as dust. His guide offered polite conversations on multiple occasions – talking about the younger wizard's previous research and about his life to come. But Rasmodius was in a foul mood, and before long Hernández realized the man would not be a terribly good conversation partner and slipped into comfortable silence.

The sun hung in the west and the moon in the east, heralding the imminent twilight.

"Your new traveling companions should not be far," his ex-professor said, stepping gracefully around a patch of briars.

"I don't believe I've seen you use a map," Rasmodius began. He figured his elder certainly hadn't simply called ahead. Magical folk seemed to have a penchant for the old-fashioned, though the image of Professor Hernández talking on those absolute bricks of technology mundane folks dubbed the modern cellular phone – especially while trying to get the antenna to stay up under their notably large hat – was almost funny enough to make the man chuckle. _Almost_ , but not quite. He still had a bit more brooding to get out of his system, first. "How do you know where we're going?"

"You are not the first I've brought here," they answered. Their words were plain and simple, but they still caused an unease to grow within him. This position seemed relatively safe, yet… How often did it go through wizards?

Before he could ask, his professor spoke again. "Ah! Here we are," they cooed, ducking hat-first under a large and low-hanging branch and disappearing into some unseen area of the forest. Suddenly not keen on being slow (and getting lost in the wilderness), Rasmodius followed.

There was a clearing in the wood – perfectly circular, like a fairy ring without the mushrooms (and, Rasmodius noticed with some level of relief, without the fae). In the middle of said clearing stood a magnificent tree, tall and noble with brilliantly green leaves decorating outward reaching branches like precious emerald jewels on a high-born lady's neck. A few branches hung lower to the ground, heavy with an abundance of nuts, and Rasmodius plucked a few out of curiosity. The shell was smooth, and though he had no way of opening the thing he recognized the shape easily enough.

Hazelnuts. A large hazel tree, then.

Closer to the trunk of the tree sat two men, both older than him. One had a mess of dark hair and an eye patch, with one hand on the hilt of the weapon to his side. Said weapon was a well-used but well-kept sword that gleamed in the dying sunlight. The blade edge looked, even from a distance, sharper than a serpent's tooth and twice as deadly.

Next to him sat another man wearing dirt-stained, heavily patched overalls. He looked almost as fit as his presumed bodyguard, indicating a life lived with heavy physical labor. Still, his greying hair betrayed his age. This second man stared as his fingertips, and before long Rasmodius realized it was because he was playing with fire. Literally. Tiny flames danced across his skin as he sat, childlike and enthralled, flicking his fingers and causing tiny sparks to jump on his command.

That was the wild magic wizard, then.

"Greetings," Professor Hernández spoke formally.

The two men looked up and spoke at the same time.

"Hello," said the eye-patched man, standing slowly and holding tighter onto his sword.

"Howdy!" The greying man cooed enthusiastically, springing to his feet much faster than his companion. A smile bloomed on his face, and he closed the space between himself and Hernández fast as he could. "You must me Kash, correct? I'm Connor, pleasure to meet you in person!"

In person? Rasmodius cocked an eyebrow.

The greying man clasped his hand over the elder academic's and shook, firm and friendly. "Thanks for all the trouble! You didn't have to bring our new wizard here, but you did, and I appreciate it! Yoba, the whole valley is going to appreciate it, even if they don't know it!" He laughed, and Rasmodius marveled at what must have been the first breath the man took since he began talking. The pause didn't last long. "I know I'm not supposed to pay you, but you went through so much trouble, so I have a little something…" He shoved his hand into his rucksack and pulled out a rectangular shape wrapped in linen. He placed it in their hand before they could refuse. "It's just sweet bread. Ah, I mean that literally! It's bread that's sweet, not animal organ, I swear. I put fruit in it."

Rasmodius sighed. Stars above, he's a talker.

The greying man turned to face him. "That means that you must be our new wizard! Rasmodius, right?"

"That is my name. And _you_ must be the wild mage," he responded unenthusiastically.

"That's me! You can call me Connor, though." His hand shook his. His palm was calloused, his fingertips still unusually warm from his magical flame. "This is Marlon, he's a friend." Connor shrugged. "He's also protection."

"Nice to meet you, Rasmodius," said Marlon. Rasmodius nodded absently.

Connor ran his hand through his hair, brushing wayward strands from his eyes. "I've got to say, I'm really excited you agreed to help us out in the valley. After our last wizard left us, we've had… issues."

The purple-haired wizard's eyebrows shot up. He had to admit, he was a little curious. "Issues?"

Marlon nodded. "Issues." He did not elaborate.

"As they say, it takes two to tango," Connor laughed nervously. "Or, you know… Two to sustain and balance the life-force of a valley. But, uh, I'll be doing most of the balancing part. I just need help with the sustaining." He paused. "Or am I doing the sustaining and you're doing the balancing…?" He looked at Marlon. Marlon shrugged. Connor looked back at Rasmodius before also shrugging. "We'll figure it out."

Rasmodius held back an exasperated sigh, his eyes flickering to his old mentor for support. He found none, however, as Professor Hernández had begun eating the sweet bread and was more focused on their snack then on a conversation they weren't a part of. "Of course," Rasmodius returned. "We'll… figure it out."

After introductions, Rasmodius said his final goodbyes to his mentor. As the sun set and the moon began its nightly rule over its court of stars, the three men made their way back into the dark of the forest, their path illuminated by the light of the fire that Connor willed into being and held confidently in his hand.

"It's an hour or two to the bus stop, then six hours to the valley," Marlon explained. "If we hurry, we should catch the last bus."

"Understood," Rasmodius responded tersely, gritting his teeth and refusing to let his growing fatigue show.

And so they went onward, with Connor chattering on about benign things most of the way. His voice blended in almost seamlessly to the sounds of nocturnal animals going about their lives. Marlon chimed in now and then, though he was on alert for… something, and did not become overly distracted from his vigil.

After a lifetime of walking, they made it to a run-down bus stop. The wooden seat creaked under his weight but Rasmodius did not care, grateful as he was to finally sit. Before long a bus pulled up to the station, bright electronic lights illuminating a worn and uncared for road.

His companions stepped on the vehicle before him. Connor paid for the wizard's fair. But before Rasmodius joined them, he craned his neck to look at the electronic sign in front of the bust which broadcasted its destination. Better safe than lost, he presumed.

NEXT STOP, the bright sign read, PELICAN TOWN, STARDEW VALLEY.


	12. Chapter 12

**THE FARMER**

Hazel breathed in. The air – mixed thick with the smell of fresh coffee and old tobacco – caught and rattled in her lungs.

"Ah, she stirs."

Hazel opened her eyes. Sunlight from unseen windows sliced across the room like shinning daggers, piercing her vision with strips of its blinding glow. Her eyes burned and welled and Hazel blinked in a futile attempt to clear her sight, only to send hot tears streaming down her face.

She was laying in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar bedroom. Hazel tried to think, tried to remember where she was and how she got there. The woman struggled to put together a thought, her foggy mind rebelling against such coherency. In the absence of thought, she felt – felt the pain of the uncountable cuts on her skin, the sharp throbbing of her head, the dryness of her mouth. Sleep, soft and seductive, tempted her back into nothingness.

Her eyelids became heavy.

"No you don't," instructed an unseen man. His voice elicited a feeling hard to grasp, as if the words were saturated with an empty compulsion. "Stay with me. Stay awake."

Calloused fingertips pressed gently on her jaw and slowly turned Hazel's head rightward, moving her gaze towards the owner of the voice and away from the blinding sunlight. A man sat at the bed side. He was old, with a thick grey beard and even thicker eyebrows. Despite being indoors he donned a leather hat, stiff and crimson. The brim covered most of his ears, and the woman wondered how he could even hear her. Hazel parted her lips to speak, but the stranger spoke first.

"There we are," he hummed, voice paradoxically soft and rough – like gravel dipped in honey. "Good. Eyes on me, now. Stay awake. How do you feel?"

"Shitty," Hazel answered honestly. Her voice was sandpaper, both in how it sounded to her ears and in how it writhed and grated against the swollen tissue of her throat.

The man exhaled sharply through his nose in what Hazel assumed was a half-formed chuckle. "Better than dead," he said, not unkindly. "What is your name?"

Hazel paused, eyebrows knitting across her throbbing forehead. "What's _your_ name?" Her words were suspicious, bordering on accusatory. The woman was not completely without a sense of self-preservation, and with her body incapacitated she had only her words to shield her.

While not a connoisseur in any sense of the word, she had been forced to watch enough horror films by too-scared-to-watch-alone roommates to know how these kinds of situations tended to end.

Better than dead, indeed.

"My name is Gil." Hazel ran her dry tongue across her teeth. Gil didn't seem like a kidnap-and-kill-you style horror movie villain name, but if looks could be deceiving then perhaps names could be as well. Hazel fought back a grumbled sigh. Her head hurt.

Gil sat in patient silence, obviously waiting for the woman to reciprocate with her own name. Hazel said nothing. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Yes. Where am I?"

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I can. I won't. Where am I?"

"Somewhere safe."

"That's debatable."

Gil exhaled through his nose again – another half-formed laugh. "Fair enough." He leaned back into his chair – a wheelchair, Hazel noted. "Well, you're speaking just fine. You don't seem to have a concussion." Gil paused. In the silence Hazel could just barely make out the voices of others from the next room, though they were too muffled by the wall to be coherent. "They will want to know you are awake," Gil said, more to himself than to the woman. He moved towards the door.

"Wait, I have questions –"

Without acknowledging her, Gil opened the thick wooden door on the other side of the room. The thing shut behind him with a muted thud, but in the sliver of time during which the door was open Hazel gleaned snippet of a conversation:

 _" –dius, sit down. You look like death walking."_

 _"We all may do much more than_ look _it, Marlon, if -"_

And then the door was shut.

And she was alone once more.

Hazel took a deep breath and slowly raised herself onto her elbows. She ached but was hardly surprise by the presence of pain. The Valley seemed keen to put her through ringer at any available opportunity, masochistic as it was.

A small mountain of quilts had been carefully draped across her body. They looked handmade, lovingly pieced together with scrap fabric into mosaics of age-muted color. Hazel shifted, releasing a pleasant waft of fresh lavender from the otherwise still air of the closed-up room. The smell was calming and, alongside her fatigued body, almost tempted her back under the warm embrace of the bedcovers.

The bedroom she had found herself in appeared relatively normal. Stone walls, a wooden floor. A faded carpet, an antique floor lamp, a few scattered books, a bed and nightstand… It didn't seem like the den of a kidnapper or killer, but Hazel figured that with her luck and with the fever-dream of a day she had just had in the mines…

She needed to find something to defend herself with. She refused to be caught off-guard and defenseless again.

The incoherent voices of those on the other side of the wall were getting louder, faster. Closer? She had to hurry.

As quickly as she could – which, admittedly, was not nearly as fast as she would have liked – Hazel half-scooted half-crawled her way to the edge of the bed near the night stand. Her hands were a sight to behold – all bruised and swollen and scabbed. She swung her legs out from under the blankets and was greeted with a similar sight. Her legs were bare and covered with a smattering of bruises of various colors, with some sections of skin wrapped carefully in slightly bloodied gauze. The overalls she had been wearing were gone, with only her filthy t-shirt and her old boyshorts protecting her skin from the comparatively cool air. Hazel noted that her lack of overalls meant that someone, some stranger, had to partially undress her, but decided to file that particular concern and the resulting feeling of unwanted vulnerability for a moment when she was certain about whether or not she was in immediate danger.

By the bed stood the nightstand – a thick, wooden thing with two drawers. A plain but partially full washbowl and pitcher sat atop it alongside a slightly damp cotton cloth and a full glass of water. Hazel smacked her dry lips. The water was tempting, but she dared not partake. Instead, she started opening drawers.

Hazel opened the top drawer and was greeted by the overwhelming smell of medicinal herbs. And, indeed, that is what the drawer held – dried herbs and flowers (most of which were foreign to her), as well as some clean gauze and colorful but tightly closed containers of unknown make. Jars full of medicine, she presumed, though she had more urgent matters to attend to than twisting them open and examining their contents. She shut the top drawer gently. The bottom drawer next, then.

Unlike the organized top drawer, the second drawer was a mess. Seemingly random objects were haphazardly placed in the drawer, resulting in the immediate impression of a single mass of clutter. Jewelry, strange looking gems… A few objects seemed worthless: fragments of broken pottery, flat white stones with strange symbols carved on them, bird feathers, a cracked hand mirror, a bone that Hazel really hoped came from an animal… Hazel sucked her bottom lip for a moment. Valuables, perhaps? Keepsakes? Were her potential captors hiding them from her? Were… Were they worried she was going to _steal_ from them?

The muffled voices were growing louder, their owners moving closer towards the other side of the door. Panic pierced her gut. She needed something, anything… Hazel stuck her hand into the mess of items and hoped for the best. Swollen hand met cold metal, so she wrapped her fingers around the mystery object and pulled.

A dagger emerged from the clutter, gold and glittering and glorious even in its sheath. The thing was mesmerizing, and Hazel struggled to pull her gaze away… Until the doorknob started to turn. Hazel pulled the weapon from the sheath and tried to stand but wobbled unsteadily.

With one hand, Hazel grasped the night stand for support. The other brandished the dagger, which the woman really hoped wasn't merely decorative.

Hazel couldn't really fight anyone in her worn-down state, and she knew as much. But she figured if these people wanted to hurt her, if they were the ones who knocked her out in the mine, well…

She would go down fighting.

The door opened. Through the frame came not the crimson-hatted man she expected, but another stranger. A man with hair the color of amethyst, with pallor skin and sleepless, sunken eyes. Despite all reason, Hazel was suddenly washed with a feeling of… not calm, she decided, but _comfort_. The man seemed familiar; he was like shelter, like safety…

He felt like _home_.

Her grip on the dagger loosened, and Hazel cursed her treacherous hand.

"You and I," the purple-haired man began, voice as stern and smooth and serious as night, "are overdue for a _discussion_."


	13. Chapter 13

**The Wizard**

The bruised stranger drank like a woman possessed. A small waterfall poured from the edge of the drinking glass and flowed out of her half-parted, swollen lips. Most of the water wasn't even making it into her mouth. Rasmodius drummed his fingertips across the tabletop.

As he watched the woman overflow with water as if she were a broken sink, the wizard was briefly reminded of a naiad he had known during his time at the Grand Academy. The embodiment of the freshwater spring that bubbled near the campus, the human-looking spirit would dunk her head underwater for longer periods of time than humanly possible in order to trick new students into thinking she had drowned. It was a macabre prank, though their water-related proclivity was where the similarities between the two women both began and ended. The naiad had a certain other-worldly elegance to her that made even her cruel deceptions look dance-like, while the woman Rasmodius found himself sitting opposite of seemed to be the antithesis of defined elegance, drenched in tap water and spittle as she was.

After a few seconds of solid gulping, the woman gracelessly slammed the now-empty glass down onto the wooden table and sighed contentedly. Marlon cleared his throat from his seat at the head of the small table, his fingers itching towards the nearby pitcher. "More?"

Blessedly, the woman shook her head.

Gil appeared near his former patient and pressed an embroidered cloth into her palm. The woman's lips tightened into a line before she began to dab her now-drenched shirt – a garment she was borrowing from Marlon while her farming attire line-dried outside. The dabbing process was slow, as only one hand was used to press the cloth to her clothing; the other hand stayed pressed onto the table, fingers twitching instinctively towards a glittering fae dagger whenever one of the men moved.

Why Gil and Marlon thought hiding artifacts of non-human make _near_ the woman was a good idea, he figured he would never understand. Still, Rasmodius thought her predisposition towards physical weaponry was interesting, if not confusing and concerning. After all, she certainly didn't _need_ the dagger. A wild magic mage could be a weapon in and of herself, if she so desired.

The stranger finished patting the shirt, sighed again, and brought her attention back to the other men at the table. Specifically, to _him._ Silence, strained and filled with awkward and half-formed anxieties, stretched on for a few seconds as all waited for another to talk.

"If you are quite done," Rasmodius begun, carefully. "We must discuss recent events."

"So you've said," the woman replied, the first time she had spoken directly to him since she woke. Her injured voice seemed to waver despite herself, but was nevertheless injected with equal parts caution and curiosity.

Rasmodius reminded himself to be careful with the woman. He knew nothing of her abilities, of her mindset. She could have wished to destroy the whole valley, for all he knew… Still, he struggled to imagine her as some evil, bestial being.

She still felt like spring to him, after all.

That, and because she did not appear terribly menacing. She was bruised and broken, yes, but also wearing a borrowed (and very damp) neon shirt – a shirt dress on her, considering Marlon's large frame – that boldly proclaimed that " _It's Six O'Clock Somewhere!"_ alongside a poorly drawn beer bottle. Marlon had been considerably embarrassed when he pulled the monstrosity from his dresser. "An old gift from a friend," he had explained half-heartedly to Rasmodius's quirked eyebrows. "I've only worn it once or twice."

The wizard brought his attention back to the present conversation. "Perhaps giving us your name would be good place to start," he continued. "I would rather not address you as 'woman' for the duration of our acquaintance."

"You first."

"Pardon?"

"You first. Your name. You tell me yours; I'll tell you mine."

Rasmodius paused. What game was she playing at? If she was truly who he thought she was, then surely names would not hold power to her as they would to a fae... Was she simply being cautious? Stubborn? The purple-haired man stole a glance at Gil, who had begun busying himself by gently folding the now-damp embroidered cloth. Surely if she was suspected of being fae, Gil would have mentioned such.

The man's gaze met the woman's yet again. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot but carried with them an intelligent intensity, as if she was not nearly seeing but truly observing those around her. She had obviously noticed him cutting his eyes and, in all likelihood, would _continue_ being frustratingly perceptive for the remainder of their acquaintance.

The woman raised a blood-dried eyebrow. The wizard conceded. "My name is Rasmodius."

The woman's eyes widened considerably, and for a brief second her face was awash with an emotion the wizard couldn't quite place. "Rasmodius," the woman eventually repeated slowly and suspiciously, rolling the sounds around in her mouth. Even with the shot state of her throat, the word sounded lovely in her voice. Like a bubbling spring, like the rustle of leaves in a warm summer breeze. "Rasmodius. Raz – mow – dee – us. _Hm_."

"Is something the matter?"

"Do you have a last name?"

"That _is_ my last name."

"A first name, then?"

"You asked for a name. I gave you one."

Marlon and Gil (who had since finished his neat folding of the cloth) sat near each other at the end of the table, silently watching the two go back and forth. The woman tilted her head slightly, revealing another soft bruise blooming on her neck. Rasmodius fought back an empathetic cringe whenever she shifted. He figured that if she felt even half as bad as she looked then she must have been in a notable amount of pain.

The nameless woman continued to stare. Rasmodius raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, _Rasmodius._ " She sucked her teeth. "Have we met before?"

"In a fashion."

"That's vague."

"That should be no surprise to you, for you should know the answer to your question far better than I."

Her head tilted the other direction, eyebrows knitting together across her scabbed forehead. She seemed confused. Perhaps she _did_ have a concussion?

As she spoke, her fingers crept ever-closer to the dagger. "Did you know a man named Connor?"

 _Ah._ An unnamed feeling rolled around his stomach and Rasmodius admitted some small amount of satisfaction in properly identifying the existence of a connection between Connor and the yet nameless woman.

"I will answer your question… _after_ you grace us with your name."

The woman's eyes looked him up and down appraisingly. After a few moments, she spoke. "Hazel. My name's Hazel."

"Ah," Rasmodius let slip through his lips. Of course her name was _Hazel_. The small bud of certainty regarding the nature of her connection to Connor grew, though he still needed to confirm. "What is your family name, Hazel?"

The woman released a short giggle, half-formed and dry. "You asked for a name," she repeated. "I gave you one."

"Touché."

Hazel did not wait long before repeating her question. "Did you know a man named Connor?"

"I have known a few individuals named Connor during my life. Connor is not so uncommon a name," the wizard answered, thumbing the edge of the tablecloth while dancing around her question. "Why do you ask?"

The woman stared challengingly at him. She never broke eye contact. "He told me to find you."

Rasmodius blanched, dropping the hem of the tablecloth. "He _what_?"

"So you _do_ know which Connor I'm talking about?"

"He told you to _what?"_

The woman crossed her arms. "Why didn't you just tell me you knew him? I'm too tired for bullshitting, Rasmodius."

Ignoring her irritation, Rasmodius leaned over the table and towards her so closely that he could smell the last remnants of the sleep magic-infused lavender he had given Gil and Marlon to enchant their pillowcases with. "What did he say to you _exactly?"_

"I already told you what he said – to find you."

A pause.

"Are you aware that Connor passed away many years ago?"

Hazel set her bruised jaw. " _I am,"_ she spit. "I'm the one who scattered his ashes, for Yoba's sake! Or, what I _thought_ was his ashes." She cut her eyes to Gil and Marlon, then sighed. "This is so _seriously messed up._ " She ran her hands through her hair. "I talked to a dead man. And then, something was in the mine, and he… he said you were supposed to _help, and..._ " She tapered off, clearly overwhelmed.

Ramodius blinked. "That _is_ my job, yes. To help you, I mean. Just as I helped your…" He paused, then took a shot in the dark. "… _grandfather_ before you," he finished.

"I never said he was my grandfather."

He was right again, then. "You resemble him," he explained. Though she was certainly prettier than the older and constantly dirt-stained wild mage had been. Rasmodius did not mention that part, however. "Though I'm certain our-" In his peripheral vision, Rasmodius saw Marlon straighten his eyepatch. The two had been so quiet, so attentive, that he nearly forgot they were there. The wizard chewed his tongue and considered his words carefully. "… _predicament_ aided me in my assumption."

"'Our _predicament'?!"_ She scoffed, then rubbed her fingertips nervously across the hilt of the stolen dagger. "You mean me getting lost in the mines and then kidnapped by a bunch of _strange men_?" She sneered him, then at Marlon and Gil. Gil busied himself by adjusting his hat. Marlon did not budge. Hazel cut her eyes towards Rasmodius once more. "What's your aim, _Rasmodius?_ I don't know what you're selling, buddy, but I'm not buying."

Rasmodius scoffed in return. "We did not _kidnap you,"_ he snapped, his tone tense and incredulous. While usually even-tempered, Hazel was irritating him. He had risked himself to save her – to save this mystery woman who had seeped into his dreams and ignored the call of the dying Valley, yet insisted on acting as if she had not agreed to the contract that brought her here in the first place. "And I am not 'selling' anything. You needn't feign ignorance on the matter, Hazel."

"'Feigning ignorance'? _Really?!"_ She clutched the dagger now, her knuckles pressing hard into the tabletop. Her eyes suddenly ablaze with emotion, the inferno of feelings swirling behind her irises unextinguished by the tears that had begun to pool around her lashes. "I have been living in this Yoba-forsaken town for _weeks_ with absolutely no clue what was going on _,_ with everything around me dying, with no way to leave… and you have the _gall_ to accuse me of _pretending to be confused?!"_

The air prickled. The hairs on the back of wizard's neck stood on end as a feeling, sharp and bright and _strong_ , coursed through him, permeating the air like thick ozone before a thunderstorm. Rasmodius knew this feeling. It was wild magic. But this was _her_ wild magic, and it was fierce and uncontrolled and obviously untrained. Her magic pressed outward from within, straining violently against the boundary the was the flesh of her body.

Rasmodius knocked his knuckles gently against the table, never looking away from Hazel. " _Eye,"_ the wizard mouthed, hoping the soft knock had clued his companions into the urgency of the situation without alerting the woman. Out of the corner of his eye Rasmodius saw Marlon shift in his seat, reaching behind his head to untie the eyepatch.

Hazel waited. Her storm brewed.

Years had passed since Rasmodius last had to deal with wild magic spillage. He breathed in, then out, and hoped helpful words would come to him. "I… did not mean to upset you," he decided upon.

The pools by her eyes ran down her cheeks like glittering springs. Her magic rumbled like thunder. Rasmodius shivered. Marlon clicked his tongue. He had noticed, then.

Rasmodius still did not look away.

"Then _help me_."

Rasmodius smelled smoke a split second before her magic flared. It was like lightening touching ground: bright and unmissable. It gave him goosebumps.

Then, came the fire.

Wisps of hot white flames erupted from Hazel's hand, a violent burst of energy taken form. The woman shrieked, jumping from her seat and sending her chair clattering behind her. She shook her arm hand vigorously in an attempt to extinguish the flames but her mounting fear only caused it to grow and spread. The inferno snaked up her arm in ringlets of near-blinding blaze.

Rasmodius rushed over, careful to keep far enough away from her flailing limb. "Hazel, calm yourself. Hazel-"

Hazel did not listen. Her eyes, white with fear, stayed fixed on the creeping pyre that used to be her arm. She was so frightened, Rasmodius realized, so confused, it was as if…

As if she really _didn't_ understand what was happening.

The flame jumped to her hip. If it reached her feet, she would set the house on fire. He had to act quickly, but he had yet to have time to prepare any magical feats. All he had was himself.

Rasmodius remembered the mines – remembered their shared state of binding. Perhaps, he thought to himself, it would be enough. Perhaps _he_ would be enough.

"Hazel," he tried again, evening his voice and reaching a hand towards the woman of embers. "Look at me." She did.

For a moment, Rasmodius hesitated. If he was wrong, he would die. But if he did not try, they would _all_ die.

Fast enough to prevent his better judgement from staying his hand, he grasped her arm. His hand slid through the flames effortlessly. He felt no pain, only the unusual, but not unpleasant, warmness of her flesh. He breathed a sigh of relief. Burning alive was very painful, or so he had been told, and he was thankful to have avoided such a terrible fate. "Wonderful," he focused on Hazel. "Do you see? The fire doesn't hurt."

Hazel blinked, her chest heaving. "Make it stop," was all she managed to sputter.

 _"Stars above, Connor,"_ Rasmodius wanted to curse, " _did you neglect to teach this poor woman_ anything _?"_

"This is your fire, Hazel," he said aloud. "You have to stop it."

"Wha- _my_?" She swallowed. He nodded. "I… I don't know how." The fire had stopped spreading, but the room was filling with smoke.

Rasmodius clicked his tongue. "Marlon?" The wizard turned his head. Marlon stood not far away, his viciously sharp sword in hand and the Fairy Eye vibrating visibly in his eye socket. His blade was trained on Hazel. Though Marlon was well past his prime, he was still an exceptional swordsman, and Rasmodius was no fool…

If Rasmodius failed to stop the flame, Hazel would die.

Rasmodius tried something different. "Gil?" Gil was, thankfully, _not_ pointing a weapon in his direction. In fact, the man was remarkably calm – perhaps used to such events from his youth, perhaps confident in his husband's ability to stop the magic flow at the source should the need arise.

"Yes?"

"I require one ice cube and a spoonful of sea salt."

"Thank the spirits; we have both." Gil made his way to the small kitchen tucked in the corner of their home. He was slow and careful, a testament to his knowledgeability – high emotions could make the flare spread.

Rasmodius stepped closer to Hazel, trying his best to block her view of Marlon. She was quiet but shook violently, likely overwhelmed by the strong waves of magic that flowed from her uncontrollably. Not an unusual occurrence for the untrained wild mage. Exhausted, Hazel leaned absentmindedly on him for support. Her forehead pressed lightly against his arm. Rasmodius swallowed hard.

"See, _casot,_ " Gil called calmly to his husband while gathering the items. "I told you buying the refrigerator with the ice maker was a good idea."

"I still think we should have just bought an ice tray," Marlon grumbled. "'s cheaper."

"But not as quick." Gil made his way to Rasmodius, keeping a careful distance from the flame. A small bowl rested on his lap, holding the singular ice cube and small salt mound. "You seem a bit preoccupied, Rasmodius. Would you like me to place the items myself?"

Rasmodius thanked the Stars that Gil knew what he was doing. "If you would be so kind," he returned, before clearing his throat and saying the first part of the spell.

 _"Letole rete laira,"_ Rasmodius began. Years ago his professor had lectured him about his breadth of ability with this very spell, and the irony of the apparent usefulness of the then-ignored advice was not lost on him. " _Ici rete panedet."_ Rasmodius parted his lips and leaned sideways towards Gil, who helpfully – and carefully – popped the ice cube in his mouth before moving away. The ice was coated with a truly unpleasant amount of salt. _"Ietole rete panedet,"_ Rasmodius finished, trying his best not to choke on the ice cube.

Cold immediately enveloped the two of them. In reality, his comparatively weak cold spell would not stop fire magic as wild and untrained as Hazel's. Hazel, however, would likely have no way of knowing this.

Rasmodius hoped it would work. He was not a betting man, and was growing tired of these gambles.

Slowly but surely the cold settled and her fire died. Hazel was calming, the house was still standing, and all of them were still alive. "Wonderful," he said, mostly to himself. "Wonderful. Now," he spoke to an exhausted looking Hazel. "Let's start again from the beginning, shall we?"

Hazel nodded.

"Why are you here, Hazel? Why did you come to Pelican Town?"

"I came here," she began breathlessly, "because of a letter."


	14. Chapter 14

**THE FARMER**

 _[10-odd Years Ago, a city far from Stardew Valley]_

Hazel thought about dragons often. Perhaps more often than most children her age, even as inclined to imagination as her peers were.

She thought not just about dragons, of course. Her mind was often abuzz with the fantastical and mythical creatures and lost lands and grand heroes of past ages. For reasons she never quite understood, her father hadn't been particularly keen on her fondness for fairy tales and fantasy. He had gently nudged her towards reality with soft pats on her shoulder and reminders that the beings in her imagination were just that, imaginations, and perhaps she was getting a bit too old to believe they were real?

His remarks were ignored by the girl, who nodded dutifully without actually listening and promptly ran outside at the first opportunity to search fruitlessly for fairy rings or goblin dens or werewolf tracks in the concrete jungle that the two called home. Eventually the man gave in and allowed Hazel to partake in her interests without the constant reminders.

Not far from her face laid one such library book. Hazel was in her living room, laying on her belly with her head cradled in her palm and her feet swinging back and forth behind her. The air was thick and rancid with summer heat, the only respite the slowly circling ceiling fan above her. The girl licked her pointer finger and thumb – she wasn't sure why exactly, she had just seen her father do it and assumed it was an important aspect of the ritual that was doing important reading – and flipped the page of a text that was well above her reading level.

"Blech!" Her hand tasted slightly of dirt, and she recoiled a bit at the taste.

Then, she began to read.

 _According to most beliefs,_ _dracones quadrupedia (dragons of the four-legged variety) are ectothermic poikilotherms; therefore, they may be found most commonly in warm-weather climates, with the exception of those of the argentum dracones variety, which are found exclusively in colder climates._

"Hmm," Hazel hummed to herself, rubbing her chin in an attempt to act as thoughtfully and scholarly as possible. She had read this passage before and still didn't know a good handful of the words but figured that didn't matter since she got the gist of it – dragons like hot weather.

That day was hot. Very, very hot. Surely that meant there would be many dragons out?

From the kitchen (which was not very far away, given how small the apartment was), her father poked his head into the living room. "Hazel, sweetheart, can you _please_ remember to put your plate into the sink when you're done using it? We're going to get ants."

"I like ants," Hazel affirmed innocently, not really hearing the first half of his sentence.

Her father, a paragon of patience, sighed. Hazel heard a _clink_ as he placed dishes in the sink, followed a _click_ of the small radio in the kitchen being turned on (they weren't able to afford a television or cable, but Hazel was outside so often it hardly made a difference to her). A local station crackled to life, the signal perpetually poor.

 _"…and a reminder to residents,"_ a radio personality spoke too-cheerfully from the speaker, " _that there is a high air pollution advisory for the area today. Keep your windows closed and avoid going outside if you can_."

" _That's the fourth day in a row_ ," the co-host pipped up.

 _"Think of it as the price of progress,"_ the host returned before going on about what good the newly constructed production plants were doing to the local economy.

Hazel's father murmured something angrily to no one in particular, his words drowned by the sound of the running faucet and the clank of dishes as he cleaned the remnants of their small breakfast of nearly-stale bread and overly-sour jam.

"Hazel?" Her father called to her.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry sweetheart, but we won't be able to go the park today. The air is too bad."

" _Again?"_ Hazel whined, sitting up from her book and facing the direction of her father. He was turned towards the sink, his back facing her but his face angled so he could see her in his peripheral vision. "But dad, you promised! Since we couldn't go yesterday you said it was gonna be one of my presents!"

"I know, I know…" He dried his hands and turned off the sink and the radio before walking into the living room. "I know I promised, and I know it's your birthday, but if we go out today you could get really sick," he explained, lowering himself onto their worn fake-leather sofa.

Hazel's lower lip jutted out. "Pollution is stupid."

Her dad smiled lovingly at his daughter. "There's my little environmentalist," he joked, leaning forward to ruffle her hair. "We can go out and do… whatever it is you wanted to do at the park when the air quality improves."

"Birthday promise?"

"Birthday promise."

"Good." She nodded, satisfied, before turning back to her book.

"What was your plan for the park anyway, sweetheart?" She had been very insistent on having a plan, though she had not told him the details of it just yet. Just that there would be no swing-set or jungle gym time for her, and that she had more important things to do.

"I wanted to search for dragons." Hazel flipped through her book, not really reading anything but stopping now and then to trace her fingers over the colorful illustrations that filled some of the pages.

"Uh-huh. Didn't you do that last weekend?"

"No, those were dragon _eggs._ I want to find a living dragon this time. They like the heat."

"I see."

Hazel's father barely tolerated her magical interests. He wanted to raise her far away from that world, but his parenting books had said that children were drawn to things that were forbidden to them. So, he allowed her to indulge... Luckily for him, most of the information she had gotten ahold of was wholly of inaccurate conjecture written by non-magical humans. While he was also a non-magical human, he, at least, knew better.

Three years ago, Hazel had been fixated on horses. The man wondered briefly if horses were ever going to make a come-back in his household. He sighed and supposed that dragons were still a bit safer, and consequently a bit more preferable, of a topic than last month's. She had somehow found a book on elemental magic – though she had refused to tell him where – and unknowingly caused a week's worth of acid rain that flooded two highways.

Regardless, Hazel's magical-obsession of that month was dragons. During her father's day off last week, the two of them had gone to tend to their small plot at the local community garden. Quickly finishing her portion of the weeding, Hazel had turned to looking for dragon eggs amongst the code-violating decorations of the other plots. She had returned with a collection of small painted rocks, which her father convinced her to return by telling her it was wrong to steal dragon babies.

One of her collection of rocks, much to his immense surprise, _had_ been a dragon egg – highly illegal, given they were a protected species. He, of course, did _not_ tell Hazel that. He _did_ write a letter about it that night, once his daughter had fallen asleep, reporting it to the proper authorities.

The man figured the young girl didn't need to know about dragons. Or anything mystical or magical, for that matter.

Really, he didn't _want_ her to know.

Magic could manifest within someone through a variety of ways: some were born into it, some stumbled upon it, and some were gifted it. Legacy magic, the kind of magic that buzzed within his unknowing daughter, referred to magical ability passed down from one magical being to another not by birth or by chance but by choice. And the sliver of Legacy magic the little girl carried within her, however minuscule, was powerful… and incredibly chaotic, though that was common for one whose magic was of the Legacy variety – _especially_ when the Legacy was bestowed incompletely. Still, she was untrained, and magic always tended to cling stronger to children. She would grow out of it, he assumed, and in her adulthood would reflect upon this part of her life as being the result of an overly active imagination.

The man's phone ringed, breaking the relative silence that had settled upon the living room.

"Hello? Yes, this is James." Hazel looked up from her book. "No, I'm sorry, I can't come in today. I-. Yes. Yes. But I took the day off, it's my daughter's- Yes. Yes, of course. Of course, sir. Of course, sir. Yes. I'll be right there."

He hung up, and sighed.

"Hazel, I-"

"I know," she pouted.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I know." She would be lying if she said she wasn't already expecting it. The production plants worked her father to the bone most days, but the small family needed the money.

He sighed yet again, before standing up and going to change. Hazel kept flipping her pages, this time without much focus. She wasn't in the mood anymore.

"Hazel?" Her father called from behind a closed door.

"Yeah?"

"How about we open presents early?"

Hazel head shot up from her book. "Yes! Yes yes yes! But, don't you be at work?"

"It'll be fine. I'll be on time," her father stepped out of his room in his uniform. "…Probably." In his hands were two packages, one square one wrapped in colorful multi-colored paper with BIRTHDAY GIRL patterned on it and one a long rectangle one wrapped in powder-white linen. "One from me," he held up the colorful present, "and one from grandpa," he held up the present wrapped in linen.

Hazel wiggled in her seat on the floor, small grabby hands reaching upwards for the birthday goodies. "Presents!"

"Just remember to save the paper," he laughed. "Which one do you want to open fi-" His phone rang again. He answered. "Yes, this is James. Hello again, sir. Yes, I was just about to leave. Sir, with all due respect, you've only given be a few minutes to.. yes. Yes, sir. My apologies, sir. I'll hurry, sir." He hung up, sighed, and called his superior a name that was not suitable for children. Hazel stifled a giggle, upset at the situation but delighted to have heard a forbidden word.

He apologized again to his daughter and kissed her on the forehead, then produced a bandana from his pocket and began to tie it around his mouth and nose. "I'll be back for dinner," he said through the cloth. "What should I pick up for your birthday meal?"

"Strawberry cake!"

"For dinner?"

"Yes."

"And for desert?"

Hazel paused. "Chocolate cake?"

"I'll see what I can do," he chuckled, before stepping into the smog-filled outside world and locking the door behind him.

Hazel waited only a moment before pouncing on the presents like a starved lioness. Her father's gift was a tiny box bursting with goodies – a small set of colorful chalk, a small bottle of bubble soap ( _bubble wand included!_ yelled the packaging), and a few off-brand chocolate bars.

One chocolate bar was chosen and quickly devoured. The wrapping fell to floor, never having had stood a chance against the ravenous and unbeatable hunger of a child who wants something sugary to eat.

To Hazel's delight, the sweet had caramel filing.

She opened her grandfather's next, unintentionally wiping her chocolate-coated fingers on the linen wrapping. Inside was a cardboard box and two envelopes stacked on top of each other. Both letters were as powder-white as the linen they were wrapped in (though sans the chocolate stains). Both letters also had her name written messily on the front, though one included a footnote proclaiming she should _"open me first!"._ The second was sealed shut purple wax, which itself was stamped with a pattern so intricate that it was hypnotizing. Curved, organic imprints swirled around what looked like an apple. When stared at for too long, the design appeared to move and dance like tree branches in the breeze.

It made her a bit dizzy.

Fueled by childish rebellion and a good amount of sugar, Hazel tried to open the second letter first by sliding her finger under the seal. She tugged and pulled, and yet…

She couldn't get it to open.

Not one to quit when the going got rough, Hazel tried instead to tear the letter in half. It would not tear. She grabbed a butter knife from the kitchen, but that would not go under the seal, either. She briefly toyed with the idea of trying to set the letter on fire to see if she could get the envelope to burn away, but shoved that plan to the back of her mind when she realized that she: one, didn't know where her dad kept the matches, two, did not want to get in trouble with her father, and three, did not want to risk accidentally burning down their home.

Instead she simply opened the first letter, unfolded the plain parchment, and read.

 _"Happy birthday, my little poppy! I wish I could be with you to celebrate, but I will try to visit soon!"_

Her grandfather always visited them; she wasn't allowed to visit him in turn. In fact, Hazel didn't even know where he lived. Somewhere bad, according to her dad.

She read on.

 _"Since you're basically a young woman now -"_ Hazel giggled with childish delight _"- I've given you_ _two_ _presents! The one in cardboard, you're free to open now. I hope you enjoy it!_

 _The other envelope, however, you will have to be patient with. That one can only be opened at the exact time you need it, when you feel crushed by modern life. You won't understand that now, but one day, you will, and my second gift will help you._

 _Until then, have a great birthday!_

 _I love you very much,_

 _Grandpa Connor_

 _P.S. Don't tell your dad about the second letter. You know how he gets!"_

Hazel folded the letter back into its envelope and slipped both of them into her pocket with a level of excitement that can only come with being a child that was let in on a secret. Ready for her other gift, she turned her attention to her cardboard box.

She ripped the thing open and was immediately greeted by an overwhelming floral smell. It was a box of fresh fairy roses – her favorite flower. Hazel cooed happily. They didn't grow in the city! A rare and precious treasure, indeed. There was also a small leather pouch placed by the stems, which when opened revealed a small trove of dried fruits and candied nuts.

Hazel spent most of her day with her presents, weaving her flowers into a mighty birthday crown, eating her small hoard of sugared snacks, and sketching out ideas for chalk art to make when the air allowed her to go outside. Eventually, the world outside darkened. As Hazel flipped on the light switch to combat the growing gloom her father came home, a bag from the bakery in one hand and a pizza box in the other.

Hazel, crowned in fairy flowers, dined like a queen on her meal of plain pizza with cheese-filled-crusts. Afterwards her father pulled out her cake – split down the middle: half chocolate, half strawberry. He sang to her, and she smiled. The flames on the colorful birthday candles swayed like ballroom dancers on their wicks, like a proper court performance for birthday royalty. The young girl closed her eyes so tightly she saw stars, took a breath so deep her lungs ached, and blew out her candles with all aplomb she could muster.

"What did you wish for?" Her father asked as he served the cake.

"That's a secret," Hazel reminded him, then took the biggest bite of cake she could.

She never did tell her father about the letter.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: If you'd like to stay more up-to-date on Elysian, please consider reading the fanfiction on Archive of Our Own (my current username there is upperplanespatron)! I don't use FF much, so have a tendency to forget to upload here until sometime after I've already uploaded on Archive of Our Own. Updates regarding my posting schedule are also on Ao3, and the chapters tend to be marginally better edited on Ao3 than on FF (as I find their interface easier as a writer, so I implement edits for issues I didn't catch during my original editing process more often).

Elysian on Ao3 is currently a bit ahead of Elysian here, but the way the chapters are split up are a bit different so you may have to backtrack a bit to find your spot. Regardless, thank you for all for your kind words and support! I hope you all continue to enjoy the story. :)

* * *

 **THE FARMER**

The midday sun hung pale in the sky. Cold daylight, thin and sickly, tumbled awkwardly through the bare branches of the forest's skeletal trees before bathing the grove which harbored Hazel and her new-found companion. No warmth could be found in the feeble grey glow, but Hazel enjoyed the sensation of the unseasonably cool air against her heated flesh of her arms nonetheless.

Hazel was sitting on the dirt of the forest floor, her body positioned a safe distance away from Marlon and Gil's home. A nearby wooden sign, carved with the words _"Adventurer's Guild",_ creaked slightly in a soft breeze. Hazel pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her bare arms around her legs, the singed remnants of her borrowed shirt's sleeves flopping sadly in the wind. Hazel's skin still tingled with an uncomfortable internal bubbling, like a burning invisible heat – a sensation not unlike standing too close to a large, open flame.

The woman bit her cheek. A question danced upon the tip of her tongue, though she hesitated. Her father used to tell her there were no stupid questions, but suddenly she didn't feel so sure. She mumbled the question into the breeze, anyways.

"Pardon?"

Hazel tilted her head towards the other voice, resting her chin on her kneecap. Rasmodius hovered about a yard away, arms folded and eyes hyper-focused on her. The day had already left Hazel feeling particularly vulnerable, and she couldn't help but squirm uncharacteristically under the intensity of his gaze.

"I asked," she began, louder, "if I need to be worried about setting myself on fire again."

Rasmodius blinked. "That is entirely dependent on you."

"And that," Hazel pointed weakly in his direction as if to emphasize her point, "is not a helpful answer."

"The flare," Rasmodius continued, his eyes never leaving her, "both magical and literal, was likely connected to your emotional state. A common occurrence, in the untrained. You were angry, frustrated... and then, on fire."

Hazel sighed. "I'm not usually that…" She gestured vaguely in the air, her tired mind struggling to remember the word.

"Emotionally volatile?" Rasmodius suggested.

"I was going to say 'passionate', but sure."

A pause. The sign creaked delicately; the trees swayed menacingly. Rasmodius kept his eyes upon her, undistracted by the world around him. He had lovely eyes, Hazel had to admit to herself. Intense considering the circumstance, yes, but intelligent, with beautifully long lashes that framed amethyst irises.

 _Wait._ Hazel paused her internal monologue. _Purple_ eyes. She'd seen people with purple hair before – dyed, but purple nonetheless – yet purple eyes were new to her. Did he wear fashion contacts? That seemed unlikely… Perhaps the color was a result of magic?

Hazel signed. _Magic._ A real thing, apparently. She had been quite the magic enthusiast as a girl, though she had relegated that particular preoccupation as being a relic of her childhood imagination. She probably would have never believed that magic was real as an adult, if not for the time she had spent in Pelican Town. Spontaneously setting oneself on fire was pretty hard to explain, if not by otherworldly means.

"So," Hazel began. "I want to make sure I understand this." She stretched her arms out in front of her, spreading her fingers as if placing her hands upon a tabletop. Rasmodius waited patiently. The light wind, cool and calming, wrapped tenderly around her fingertips. "Magic is a thing."

"Magic exists, yes."

"And you're a magician."

"I am a wizard," he corrected.

"You're a wizard."

"Indeed."

"And I'm a wizard."

"Not quite." Rasmodius paused, face momentarily stiffening in consideration of some unknown thought. The air stilled. Hazel hugged her legs once more. "You harbor magic within you," he spoke, choosing the words carefully. "Be that as it may be, you are not a wizard. 'Wizard' is… a title, not unlike that of professor or doctor."

"But my grandpa was a wizard?"

Rasmodius chuffed. "No." The confusion must have shown through her face, as he continued. "Connor – your grandfather – was not formally educated in magic. Thus, he was not a wizard."

"But he was important. Magically speaking."

"Very much so. Yet, his title differed; a reflection of his unique position." Rasmodius paused yet again, the same conflict playing across his face. "As did mine, in that regard."

"Yours?" Tired surprise laced her voice, thinly veiled by the woman's growing physical fatigue and mental confusion. "I thought you said that you're a wizard."

"I am, though I am also known by another epithet."

"That's vague." Hazel began to rub the tips of her fingers against her temples. The heat in her arms was decreasing, but her head was beginning to throb. "What was grandpa Connor, then?"

A small, breathy noise escaped from Rasmodius – half frustration, half an emotion Hazel could not identify. "Connor did not tell you that, either?"

"Was… was he supposed to?"

"Yes. Yes, he was."

Hazel parted her lips, on the verge of asking him to elaborate, but was interrupted by the muffled creaking of a door opening.

"'scuse me," came a voice. Hazel turned. By the entrance of the Guild was Gil. Hazel's work clothing, freshly cleaned and patched with colorful squares of fabric, was folded neatly on his lap. "I thought our guest might like a clean change of clothes." His eyes flicked to Rasmodius, obviously searching for some kind of confirmation that their guest would not accidentally burn his house down should she come back inside.

Rasmodius quickly picked up on the unspoken question. "The salt?"

"We have plenty."

The wizard brought his attention back to Hazel. "Shall we?"

Hazel nodded. Her nerves had settled and her arms were back to a comfortable temperature, and the woman was more than ready to wear something that did not smell like a campfire.

The farmer leaned forward onto her knees before placing her hands on the dirt, bracing herself. Then, she began to stand. As she rose her knees wobbled despite her, and Rasmodius was quick to her side. He grasped her elbow gently, steadying her.

Hazel yelped, recoiling slightly at the contact. The feeling was back, the feeling of _him_ – surprisingly domestic, like comfortable blankets and warm meals, like long evenings with good books and early mornings with strong tea. Like contentment. Like home.

"Deep breaths," he instructed her, almost clinically.

Hazel swallowed hard. Was this some kind magic, then? Was this a spell of his, or another new power of hers? Whatever it was, she certainty found the experience more pleasant than the fire. Her face warmed, and she prayed she was not visibly blushing.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Of course," he confirmed, his grip nevertheless strengthening on her arm . They walked towards the building slower than she would have liked. Gil looked at the two of them knowingly, much to Hazel's confusion.

When the they reached the doorway, Hazel slipped away from Rasmodius. "I'm fine," she mumbled, before taking the clothing from Gil. "Thank you."

"You can change in our room, if you'd like."

"I will. Thank you."

Hazel began the trudge back to their bedroom. She opened the heavy wooden door. Before she could fully step through, she overheard a hushed conversation from the other side of the room.

"Why are you looking at me so, Gil?" Asked Rasmodius.

"Oh, nothing," he teased. "Come now, shut the front door. Marlon wanted to speak with you."

Rasmodius shut the front door. Hazel shut the door to the bedroom.

All was quiet once more. Hazel ran her hands over her hair, then went about stripping herself of the fire-scarred shirt.


	16. Chapter 16

**THE FARMER**

[ _Five-odd years ago, a city far outside Zuzu city]_

Hazel's magic seemed to quiet.

No more streets flooded with Hazel's unintentional storms; no more mythical creatures were found amongst the neighborhood gardens. Nothing even vaguely magical happened, save for the strange and otherworldly but entirely mundane transitions of puberty.

But then, one day, Hazel's father received a letter informing him that his father, Connor, had unexpectedly passed away.

Peacefully, it said. In his sleep, it said.

Hazel cried. James cried.

The evening they received the news, as his daughter sobbed into his chest and stained his shirt with her tears, James noticed a nearby unlit candle flicker suddenly to life.

A fire that came from nothing… as if by magic.

James swore in a muffled sneer, the word inaudible above both his and his daughter's sobs. His father must have found a way to complete her Legacy inheritance without him noticing. James had always thought he was a stubborn bastard, though he hoped Yoba would forgive him for thinking ill of the departed.

The candle's fire danced mockingly on the wick, a reminder of his failure to protect his daughter from her Legacy. James held Hazel closer and blew out the flame before she could notice.

Still, he told Hazel nothing. Told her of no gift, of no inheritance.

There was always a chance she would never notice, after all.

A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.


	17. Chapter 17

**THE WIZARD**

"Marlon, you can't possibly do this."

The older man barely glanced up from his mug. "It's no trouble, Rasmodius."

"Marlon, please," Rasmodius sighed, gesturing vaguely to the object of their discussion. The offending item – the sheathed golden dagger Hazel had plucked from the bedside table – twinkled nobly in the grey sunlight that shone through the windows. "You need not – truly, you _should_ not – be giving something so valuable to someone so unfamiliar with the complexities of magic. Honestly, I am surprised you would even put so much trust in one who is still a stranger to us."

Marlon took a long drink of his coffee before he spoke. "She seems like a fine young woman to me, if a bit green. Besides, Connor seemed to have trusted her."

Rasmodius rolled his eyes. "Connor would have entrusted a known thief with his entire life's savings."

Gil, who had until then been busying himself with systematically dumping tablespoons of sugar into his own mug of coffee, let loose a gravelly chuckle. Marlon's eyes shot to his husband with a look of playful betrayal. Gil smiled innocently and shrugged before mumbling "He's not wrong, _casot_."

Marlon continued pressing his point regardless. "What did the fortune teller say, Rasmodius? Something like… ' _She needs a weapon…_ '?"

Rasmodius hovered near the bedroom door, thumbing a chipped porcelain container filled with salt. "Dodona said Hazel would need a sword, Marlon, _not_ an ancient fae artifact."

"Close enough," Marlon swatted at the air. A humorous statement in any other circumstance, given Marlon's mastery of the sword and his knowledge of the fact that a mundane sword and a once-magical dagger were not, in fact, 'close enough'.

"I am worried about the _fae_ aspect of the thing the most, Marlon."

"That weapon is no more dangerous than any other dagger in its current state," Gil chimed in. A soft scaping noise came from where he sat as the red-hatted man went about stirring the small mountain sugar that had begun to solidify at the bottom of his cup.

Rasmodius grumbled. Gil was the most knowledgeable of any of them on matters of the fae, but the gift still didn't sit right with Rasmodius. "She is an _untrained_ _wild magic mage,"_ he implored. "There are no certainties with wild magic. Regardless, I am quite certain Dodona wrote ' _a sword_ '."

Marlon took another deep drink of coffee before he continued. "Is Dodona trained in any sort of weaponry? In any combat styles? Is she an expert in identifying armament?"

"Not to my knowledge, no."

"Then take some advice someone who _is_ ," Marlon insisted, pushing the dagger to the edge of the table closest to Rasmodius. "This will do."

Rasmodius hesitated. He glanced to the yet closed door to the bedroom, then back to the dagger. He took a few steps towards the table. "Why are you so insistent on _this_ particular dagger?"

Marlon shrugged, before looking towards his husband. Gil did not look up from his cup. Rasmodius sighed. Gil must have insisted. That was so like one of the fair folk – always so mysterious; always some hidden machination.

Though, this _was_ Gil. He was mild for a fae. Perhaps, just this once…

Rasmodius gently picked up the sheathed dagger with is free hand. The item felt empty to him – aesthetically beautiful, but devoid of magic. "What power did the artifact once hold? An enchantment? A curse? I cannot tell, and if I am allowing this I would rather be prepared for any possible complications."

"Oh, I have no idea," Marlon said simply.

Rasmodius blinked. "You… what?"

"No clue. It was drained when we got it."

Rasmodius looked at Gil, who shrugged. "I'm sure everything will be fine," Gil added.

The wizard sighed deeply for what felt like the hundredth time that day, then slipped the dagger into his pocket. "Stars above, what am I getting myself into..?" He mumbled, the question more rhetorical than not.

"Just think of it like any other job, Rasmodius," Marlon suggested.

"This is hardly just another job," the wizard rebuffed. "Not only is that woman untrained, she knows _nothing_ about the situation she has gotten herself into. Connor had, apparently, told her absolutely nothing." His words became increasingly strained as he spoke until they were almost a hiss. "She does not even know the name of her new role, Marlon, let alone the fact that she has _signed up_ for the position in the first place."

Marlon finally put his cup down and onto its saucer. "That… _is_ a little concerning." A pause. "What are you going to do, Rasmodius?"

He took a moment to think. Did he have any other options? Nothing came to mind. His situation was so rare, so magically specialized, that he had no idea who he could request help from. "I… I suppose I have no choice but to take your advice, Marlon, regardless of my personal frustrations on the matter." He took in a sharp breath, deep and resolute. "I am Hazel's Keeper, and she is my Vessel, even if she does not know it. I still have a duty to fulfill."

Not long after Rasmodius spoke, a soft click came from the bedroom door as the knob turned. Hazel stepped out. "Thank you again for washing and mending my clothing," she spoke to Marlon and Gil as she entered the room. "Though I wasn't sure what I should do with the old shirt, so I left it on the dresser."

Before Marlon or Gil could respond, Rasmodius directed a question to Hazel. "Do you feel well enough to walk?"

"Oh, uh, yes. I can walk. I'm still a little unsteady, though."

"That will do." Rasmodius sat the salt container on the table, mouthing a quick 'thank you' to Marlon and Gil before turning his attention back to Hazel. He walked to her, then held out his arm. "Come, you can lean on me. There is somewhere we must go."

Suspicion flashed across her face. "Where?" Her voice was threaded with uncertainty.

"To the one place where I may be able to explain your new world to you," Rasmodius said. "To my personal study."


	18. Chapter 18

**THE WIZARD**

 _[Five-odd years ago, Pelican Town]_

The ceremony was long and complicated, but he executed every step with absolute precision and respect.

Rasmodius had no first-hand experience with the funeral rite for those of Connor's position – that is, the funerary ritual of Enthronement – but he had books that held his hand through the procedures and he was clever enough to figure out anything that the instructions glossed over. The wizard cleaned the body of his late friend and purified his remains with incantations; adorned the corpse in a crown of poppies; swaddled the body in sheets of a rich and royal purple. Rasmodius did not bother to preserve the body in any way. So long as he prepared the man quickly enough, the Hall would care for the rest.

The wizard was tired. The fatigue of grief filled and embraced him, but that would not sway him from his duty. This was part of his job, after all, and he would honor his friend properly if it was the last thing he did.

No one attended Connor's Enthronement. In truth, no one but the wizard was allowed to. Marlon and Gil had opted to wait respectfully by the mouth of the cave, and Connor's multitude of non-magical friends were not allowed to even know that something like Connor's Enthronement had ever occurred. No family attended either, as Connor had never spoken of family to him – with the exception of a single passing remark about him once being married. The resulting ceremony was a quiet, intimate affair: just Rasmodius and the procession of corpses.

While he was alive, Connor was the Vessel of the valley. And now, that Vessel – his friend – was gone. Another Vessel would come to take his place, eventually. The valley needed one to survive, after all. Rasmodius knew his own role – not a Vessel, but the Vessel's Keeper – would also start anew when that day came.

Rasmodius had placed his friend's body gently upon his throne, all the while chanting words he did not understand. Only his own voice, firm and true and sorrowful, floated ghost-like through the otherwise haunting silence of the Hall. A feeling of true finality settled heavy in his chest.

Connor was gone, forever. The wizard's eyes watered threateningly but he gritted his teeth and refused to cry. He had a job to do, after all.

The tears would have to wait.

* * *

The day after the Enthronement, Rasmodius awoke in his own bed with little recollection of returning home. His eyes were blood-shot and puffy, his muscles aching with physical fatigue and grief in equal measure. His chest was heavy – literally so, he realized as he stirred. A small box wrapped in white linen sat neatly atop him.

A strange thing to wake to as he lived alone, though he supposed not so strange as to be suspicious given the gaps in his memory of the evening prior. Rasmodius sat slowly, his duvet pooling around his hips as he moved upright.

His past self had, blessedly, managed to change out of the previous night's heavy and uncomfortable ceremonial regalia. However, he had apparently only managed to dress the bottom half of himself before collapsing into bed. The chill of morning prickled his bare torso uncomfortably. The warmth of the bedcovers tempted him back into their tender embrace, yet Rasmodius fought the urge and instead turned his attention to the mysterious package before him.

He carefully removed the linen before opening the unmarked box the pale cloth had swathed. Inside were two envelopes, both snow white. One had the words " _open me first!"_ in Connor's handwriting scrawled messily across the face. The second was sealed shut with purple wax, which itself was stamped with a pattern so intricate that it was hypnotizing. Curved, organic imprints swirled around what looked like an apple. Connor's magic washed from the wax stamp in dizzying waves.

Rasmodius opened the first letter.

 _Rasmodius, do you remember that bet we made some years back about whether or not I'd be able to turn my fire magic into heat vision?_

The wizard blinked. He certainly did remember. Connor, apparently gaining none of the wisdom that supposedly came with old age, had nearly burned down the forest with his first attempt. The older man had wagered an absurd amount of money that he could figure out how to make his idea a reality without cooking his own eyeballs in their sockets. Rasmodius couldn't tell if he was being serious or not, but refused the bet regardless.

 _Well,_ the letter continued, _looks like I lost. Unfortunately for you, I don't have that much money. Fortunately for me, I'm dead, so I don't have to pay you!_

Rasmodius exhaled sharply though his nose, half bitter laugh and half exasperated sigh. A strange man to the end, he was.

 _Now that my debts are settled, I have a request. The other letter: I want you to read it, then come back to this one._

An odd request, but Rasmodius was too grief-wearing to think too deeply of his late friend's logic. He did as expected, thumbing the purple seal of the other letter. The wax tingled against his skin – a barely-there buzzing feeling. Rasmodius found he was unable to open the missive, and after a few frustrated moments he returned to the first letter.

 _If you weren't able to open it, then congratulations! I did my job correctly._

Rasmodius knitted his eyebrows in confusion.

 _As you know, I'm supposed to pick the next Vessel. Thing is, they might not be_ ready _for the job just yet. You'll know they've accepted the contract when envelope opens. Be patient, Rasmodius, and care for the Valley the best you can until then._

 _Your friend, always,_

 _Connor_

Rasmodius sighed wearily. A strange man to the end, indeed.


End file.
